The Dark Prowler
by ox-dancindarlin-xo
Summary: When a serial murderer goes on the loose leaving his victims with only two puncture marks on the neck and significent blood loss, Sherlock goes to investigate. Little does he know that the monster is far closer to home than he thinks.. Rated for violence.
1. Prologue

_**Feels so good bein' bad,  
There's no way I'm turnin' back.  
Know the pain is my pleasure,  
'Cause nothing could measure.  
Love is great, love is fine,  
Out the box, outta line.  
The affliction of the feelin' leaves me wantin' more.  
**_

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from 'S&M' by Rihanna. ©**

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It was like an addiction, an obsession, a craving, a fixation, a longing, a complex, a compulsion, an infatuation, a desire, a yearning, a _need_...

She needed it, and she needed it desperately.

So it was only relieving when the patio doors leading out onto her personal bedroom balcony were clicked open from the outside and pulled outward – leaving the silhouette of the only man that could satisfy her longing.

His dark, curly hair forming an ironic halo around his head, his long trench coat fanning out around him like a cape, his smart, formal suit straightening out his long, lean legs as he slowly steps towards her, his usually haughty features now smoothed into an impossibly simple expression, with only his eyelids drooping downwards to give a sense of life in him.

But there was no life left. None at all.

And she knew that there would be none in her, either, after this night.

But it was her addiction, her obsession... her craving. She would satisfy her longing even if it meant with her own mortality.

As the figure slowly stepped forward, seemingly to gracefully sweep across the floor towards her, she backed away, step by step, keeping the same distance away from him as he stepped forwards and she stepped back.

In her head, she was terrified; truly and deeply terrified. But in her heart, she was contented; truly and deeply contented. For she was about to fulfil her addiction for the very last time – to be satisfied into her death bed.

The room was completely black, with only the moonlight pouring in from the open window as a source of light. The breeze had picked up that night, so the floaty white curtains were blowing behind him, making the dark shadows silhouetting his sharp frame even more pronounced.

It was so dark in there that she hadn't even realised she had backed enough away until her back hit the wall and she was pinned. Nowhere to run – nowhere to hide. This was it. This was death. This was satisfaction.

He stepped closer still, until they were only inches apart, his tall, thin body towering frighteningly over her small frame. And as he lowered his head to reach hers, the moonlight from the window caught onto his features and she gasped in horror at what she saw.

His skin was so pale; it was as though he had stepped directly out of a black-and-white movie. It was eerily white, _death_-white – tinged an almost blue. The only colour on him was in his irises. Their usual ice-blue was gone, replaced with a blood-curdling shade of red. So red it wasn't _really _red... It was like _fire_ in his eyes – like a burning rage continuously building up inside him, hungry to be released.

Just like she was.

And when she felt his leather-gloved hands caress her cheeks, the two puncture marks in her neck began to burn at the recognition of their creator.

Her breath hitched in her throat as his already-too-close face lowered even more until his nose was hovering above the two marks he had created no less than two days beforehand. His hands suddenly became firm on her face and now, instead of caressing them, he forced them sideways so he had a perfect view of her neck.

This was not unusual. He was usually rough with her – it was something that comforted her about him. _He_ needed it too; it was just one small thing that made him human enough to love.

And then she decided – right then at that moment – that she loved him. She did. She loved him uncontrollably and inexplicably. It was something she'd never thought of before; how could she love him? Someone she barely knew; he was just her nightly visitor, a man to whom she owed her addiction to. Like she was the heroin addict and he was the dealer.

Because, basically, that's what it was – an addiction. An infatuation; nothing more.

But something stirred inside her that told her it was love. Like a heroin addict would love the heroin – she loved the man her addiction was based upon. She wasn't even sure what it was that she was addicted to... But whatever it was it was good.

She looked away into the darkness as his thin, blue-tinted lips parted and revealed a set of pearly-white teeth. But the more he opened his mouth, the wider his eyes went – and the longer his canines grew.

Longer and longer, sharper and sharper until they just touched his bottom lip, puncturing his own skin there. As the droplets of the stolen blood quickly surfaced, he ferociously sunk his fangs into the marks previously made directly on her jugular.

And then it hit her – the overflowing urge to scream out, the white-hot searing pain radiating throughout her limbs. But she uncontrollably bit down hard onto her bottom lip so the scream wouldn't come out, and she kept the raging fire deep inside, closing her eyes tight as her irises scorched beneath their lids.

This was it – _this_ was what she was addicted to. Not the metallic smell of the blood trailing from the corners of his mouth, not the sound of the slurping as he gulped down the blood in pints, not the closeness of it all as he kept her pinned to the wall with his cold stone body, so much so that her feet barely touched the floor anymore, and it was not the satisfaction of the _need_ slowly leaving her as she got her release.

But it was the pain. She was addicted to the pain. Nothing else.

For it was the pain that kept it sane – kept it _real_.If there was no pain then how could she be sure if it was a dream or not? If there was no pain there would be nothing to hold onto, nothing to grasp in the darkness, nothing to cling to as if her life depended on it.

But her life _did_ depend on it. That's what made it an addiction.

She groaned in content as her longing was satisfied, relaxing in his strong arms as the fire slowly began to die out. She felt her irises cool and she was able to open her eyes lazily. She was exhausted, just as she always was after one of these experiences; that was what probably contributed to the fact that she had to always prove to herself that this wasn't a dream. Because in the morning she wakes up in her own bed and he is gone and there is no proof of the truth except the slightly pink marks on her neck. It is the very _pain_ that keeps the experience alive.

But he didn't stop like she had expected him to. He didn't stop like he had done the two nights before. He just kept going, he kept slurping and tearing at her artery until the fire raged inside her again. Except this time, the fire was so hot that she couldn't close her eyes. If she closed her eyes her eyelids would scorch and she would scream. But she couldn't scream... She wouldn't allow herself to scream...

_But... so much... pain. The fire... raging fire... Stop. Please._

"Stop!" She yelled, realising that this was truly her demise, just like she'd always thought. "Stop! _Please_! Please stop!"

But he kept going. He kept tearing and slurping until the two little puncture marks were now gaping great holes in her neck and the blood seeped through freely all over her white nightgown and his pale lips.

His grip was so firm against the wall she was finding it difficult to breath – but how could she focus on breathing when the fire was burning like this? It was scorching, blistering the whites of her eyes. She could no longer see; everything blurred and tinted red.

"No!" She screamed as she tried in evident vain to push him from her. "_No_! _**NO**_!" This wasn't how she was supposed to die... Where was the satisfaction? Where was the ending need? Why wasn't she contented with her release? Why did it _burn_ more than before?

She was supposed to die in content that the yearning was satisfied, but she knew now that her longing would never be satisfied – not even in death.

Her nails clawed deeply into his marble skin flesh and at his face until her hands dropped limply by her sides as all life left her with one last blood-curdling shriek of _agony_.

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_**A/N: Uhh... Yeah, a little long for a prologue. Anyway, earlier today I looked back onto my work with my Tom/Hermione fanfiction where he fantasises about licking the blood from an open wound and so I thought I'd give this a go. I'm just playing around to see if I'm any good at horror. What do you think? Yay or nay?**_

_**Also, I've been obsessing over Christopher Lee (awh.. YUM!) and so I've been watching and re-watching old videos of Dracula my grandma has lying around. He is SO AWESOME!**_

_**Reviews = love! Share the love!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	2. One

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

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_One Week Beforehand_

"Lestrade?" Sherlock hissed into the small hidden microphone he had attached to his trench coat collar. "Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Sherlock," Lestrade replied, his voice loud and clear in the small headphone placed into Sherlock's ear. "Whereabouts are you now?"

"I'm just about there." Sherlock whispered, gingerly stepping out and down a hidden step in the sewer he was being forced to investigate into. "I can hear them moving. They're out of the sewage so there must be a platform of some kind coming up. Now please could you stop talking to me, it's very distracting."

Lestrade was silent.

Sherlock paused. "Thankyou."

He continued on his venture down the sewer. He was trying to fish out (pun not intended) a man wanted for murder in the United States. He illegally immigrated over to the UK a few years ago, and has only been discovered after assaulting a woman at a supermarket.

Honestly, you'd think that a murderer would try to keep himself low if he'd managed to keep hidden for a year, but _no _he has to be stupid and assault a cashier at Asda. Amateurs.

Sherlock stepped carefully. He didn't want to disturb the filthy water any more than necessary. "Oh, and Lestrade?" He said quietly into the microphone, "Remind me to thank Molly for the nose-plugs later."

"No need Sherlock, she's right here."

"You're welcome, Sherlock!" Molly called from somewhere in the background.

Sherlock winced, and said nothing. He would never understand women.

There was a turn up ahead and he could see a single ray of light from the other side. And as a shadow walked past he heard some low, muffled whispering. There were two men down there. Ah.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock whispered, his voice even lower than before. "We may have a problem. There is a second man down here and possibly a third. I can't take them all at once. Damn why didn't I accept that gun from Donovan?"

"Because you're a freak?" He heard Sally Donovan call from the background, more as a statement than a question, with her voice raised at the end as if the answer was evident.

"Hush, Sally, this is no time for jokes," Lestrade snapped, and the sniggering in the background silenced, "Okay, just get out of their, Sherlock. We'll get people at all the sewer openings right now."

Sherlock sighed. He hated giving up on a case. "Fine. How dull." He droned, bored already, and turned quickly to leave the awfully dark tunnel.

But he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw someone hanging upside-down from the roof of the rounded sewer. He stifled his gasp into his coat collar but in doing so caused the microphone to fall and land somewhere in the sewer.

"Sherlock?" He heard Lestrade ask into his ear, worriedly. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The very thing blocking Sherlock's path was... a man. Indeed a man, wearing torn, mud-stained blue jeans and nothing else. No shirt and no shoes.

But... he was hanging effortlessly from the roof of the sewer. The _curved_ roof of the sewer. He was clinging onto the metal with nothing more than the souls of his feet and the tips of his fingers. His hair was blonde and his face seemed matted with some sort of dry mud, or sewer filth.

His eyes were closed, as though he were sleeping.

He... looked like a _bat_.

Sherlock was stuck. There was enough room to duck underneath the man but it meant crawling on his hands and knees in already knee-height sewage filth. But he knew the man knew he was there already. The man could have only been there at least a minute or so. He hadn't been there when Sherlock walked in, and it certainly would have taken more than a minute to hang upside-down like that. So what was this?

Where were the wires? There had to be wires.

But just as Sherlock contemplated in his mind whether or not to feel around the empty air around the man for a wire holding him up, Lestrade's panicked voice yelled into his eardrum.

"Sherlock?"

And at the exact same moment the first syllable left the Detective Inspector's lips, the man's eyes flew open and revealed blood-red irises surrounding his widely dilated pupils.

He had no time to think, move or even _breathe_ – because in a split second the man had opened his mouth _wide _to reveal two gleaming fangs and leapt for Sherlock's jugular...

And the sewer blew up from the inside-out.

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_One Week Later_

If Sherlock Holmes is anything, he is not stupid.

He may be arrogant and pompous, and big-headed and egotistic and sometimes maybe even a little conceited and haughty but if anything Sherlock Holmes is _not _stupid.

Sherlock Holmes is very, _very _clever.

So that morning when their landlady, Mrs Hudson, told him that DI Lestrade had rang with another mysterious murder case he wasn't at all surprised when it bored him to tears at how easily simple it was.

"You called me at four-thirty in the morning for _this_?" Sherlock demanded of the DI as he stood up from the mangled corpse lying on the bed before him.

Lestrade just shrugged casually; already used to Sherlock's usual rantings. "What do you think?" He asked placidly, placing his hands in his pockets, completely ignoring the Consulting Detective's question.

Sherlock sighed, a furrow in his brow, turning back to the dead woman lying in only a white nightgown that was now crimson with blood.

"It's fairly obvious," Sherlock began, peeling off his leather gloves and placing them into his trench-coat pockets, "The two puncture marks on the neck indicate some kind of psychopathic occult killer murdered her, possibly with a roasting fork but the wounds are too round while the ends of a roasting fork are flat; it had to be something else with two sharp points – it couldn't have been one sharp point stabbing twice because the wounds are exactly the same width apart and on a one-hundred and eighty degree line, not even the most intelligent mathematician could have got the wounds that straight so we're looking for something with two round pointed ends and perhaps made of metal. The woman was single, obviously waiting for a lover to come visit her from the floaty negligee she is wearing and her wedding finger is perfectly clean so no wedding ring has ever been worn. She is in her mid-twenties with a steady job from the dark circles under her eyes, that means she has been staying up frequently every night working on some form of paperwork looking at the multiple paper cuts on her thumb, meaning she has to flick through papers every day, perhaps she is a secretary but her nails aren't manicured enough so she more than likely works from home. There seems to be no signs of a struggle because her nightclothes are not torn if not maybe a little wrinkled, but the murderer had no intention of engaging in intimate contact with her otherwise she would be naked – definitely a bloodlust killer wanting to get the job done fast. Any questions, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade nodded only once, before bending down closer to the victim's head and looking up to Sherlock, "Yeah, just one. How do you explain this?" And that, he lifted one of the woman's eyelids up to reveal a crimson-red iris.

Sherlock didn't look surprised or shocked; he looked more-so confused than anything else. "What is that?" He asked quietly, probably more to himself than anyone else.

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Hmm..." Sherlock hummed, standing beside the DI to get a closer look. "Could be a blood clot behind the eye. Or a significant amount of trauma to the head caused internal bleeding."

Lestrade stood up straight, but Sherlock remained crouched over the body, studying the victim's eye. "Maybe," The Detective said, "But it's on both eyes." Almost immediately after he'd said it, Sherlock's hand darted out and lifted the other eyelid up to reveal exactly the same on the other eye.

A rush of air left Sherlock's lips as it rushed over him that he didn't have a reasonable explanation for this one. The whites of the eyes weren't bloodshot – it was just the irises, and no blood was leaving the tear-ducts either. So if it wasn't a blood clot or internal bleeding then what was it?

"Get her back to the lab and run some tests." He practically ordered, getting grouchy from his lack of knowledge, "I want to know if there is any sort of virus in her system. Maybe some kind of blood disease from the metal weapon the killer used."

"Umm..." Lestrade began, confused, as Sherlock stepped back and put his gloves back on, "...How do you know the weapon was made of metal?"

The corner of Sherlock's lip tilted up a little into that crooked smile that always said he knew more than anyone else did. "The wound is far too clean to be made with anything else."

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Once Sherlock got back to 221b Baker Street, he collapsed onto his black leather sofa and peeled off his gloves, coat and scarf. Watson was sitting not too far away on the sofa reading the paper, his eyes never lifting from the article he was reading as he asked Sherlock, "So how was it?"

"Weird." Sherlock replied, his hands over his face so the word came out muffled.

Still his eyes never looked up. "How was it weird?"

Sherlock paused before speaking. It felt strange having to admit it aloud that he had no results on it yet, and he just wanted Anderson to get on with it so he could find this murderer. "The victim had... red eyes."

John's eyes flickered immediately from the paper and directly onto Sherlock's face. Sherlock couldn't see Watson's expression through his fingers but he knew it would be an echo of how he was feeling.

"R-Red eyes?" John spluttered out, throwing the paper to one side amongst all the other junk of Sherlock's in their flat and sat up straight in the chair to get a better listen in. "What like..." He paused and stifled back the laugh that was threatening to bubble up. This was a serious matter. A woman was dead. "...Like a vampire?"

"Don't be so stupid, John!" Sherlock shouted, tearing his hands away from his face to yell properly. "How on earth could a mythical creature murder a woman in the twenty-first century?"

Watson held out his hands in a surrender suggestion. "I wasn't implying that, I was just saying where the irises red or was it–,"

"Yes, the irises exactly."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a moment while Sherlock's thought-waves radiated round the room. John half-expected him to tell him to 'shut up' and stop thinking because it was 'annoying' but when he said nothing at all for a good five minutes, Watson began to worry.

"...Sherlock?"

"A... vampire?" Sherlock repeated, talking aloud and not to John personally. John just sat hesitantly, watching the only Consulting Detective in the world do his thing. "Well, yes... An occult murderer, possibly. But that doesn't explain the lack of blood at the scene."

"Lack of blood?"

"Yes, the victim had significant blood loss. There was at least half a pint left in her system – if even that. But there were only a few large spots of blood on her nightgown and forensics confirm that there were no other traces of blood in the house."

"Um... Okay. But you said an 'occult murderer' – what makes you think that?"

"She had two puncture marks on her neck."

Although Sherlock's eyes had not moved from the spot of wall he'd been staring at, deep in thought, John felt his eyes on him as he shuddered uncontrollably.

"Don't be so stupid, John." Sherlock repeated, just as before, only calmer this time, in a voice so low it was barely a whisper. It reflected exactly what John was thinking. "This is the work of an occult gang of some sort. No doubt it'll happen again sooner or later."

John sighed, the sound immediately irritating Sherlock. "Wow. You emerge from an exploded sewer with nothing but a bump on the head and just after you are released from hospital a weird and '_wonderful_' case shows up. Lucky you."

"Yes." Sherlock purred, staring blankly into space. "Lucky me... Ouch!"

Watson looked over to the Detective as a hiss emerged his teeth and he began rubbing at his front teeth madly.

"Toothache?" John asked, calmly.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, just as placid. But he winced when he took his fingers away and looked down at them to see little spots of blood there. "And bleeding gums, apparently."

"Well... Maybe _un_lucky you, then." John shrugged, turning back to his paper, his brow furrowed in thought about what could have happened to the woman.

Sherlock hissed in pain again and ran his tongue along his front row of teeth. He was surprised when the metallic taste was...

No. Blood didn't taste _nice_, did it?

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_**A/N: Yeah, so... I'm not going to say anything; I'm just going to let your minds tick over what the hell was running through my mind when I wrote this. ;)**_

_**Reviews are love, and ideas are welcome! :D I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	3. Two

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

**Quotations from 'A Study in Pink'.**

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"_One day we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."_

_**Don't turn around. Don't turn around.**_

He was in the sewer. He was looking for that murderer, the American one. He'd assaulted the cashier at Asda, or somewhere. Watson had told him about it, but... he couldn't really remember...

"_Psychopaths get bored."_

_**Don't look behind. Don't look behind.**_

He had to leave. The... men. Three? Three men... They would set off the bomb. He had to leave.

"_Do people usually assume that you're the murderer?"  
"Now and then, yes."_

_**Don't move. Don't move.**_

But he couldn't move. He _mustn't _move. If he turned around... Something would happen. He mustn't turn around – he mustn't look behind.

"_What's the point in being clever if you can't prove it?"_

_**Must turn around. Must turn around.**_

But the curiosity was fascinating. What was behind him? What frightened him so much that he couldn't turn for fear of his very life?

"_Still the addict... But this is what you're addicted to, isn't it?"_

_**Must look behind. Must look behind.**_

Yes... He must, he... _had _to. There was no resisting; it was as if it was a sewn event. Something he had to cling onto, to exist for. What was there in life but this mysterious thing behind him?

"_You'd do anything – anything at all – to stop being bored."_

_**Move. Move.**_

Sherlock quickly turned and saw–

"_**Sherlock**_!"

"_**What**_? Wha-what?"

Sherlock looked up to see Doctor John Watson, his flatmate and friend, looking down at him worriedly, shaking his shoulders madly as if he was awakening him from a bad dream.

"Sherlock?" He asked, as the Consulting Detective's eyes focused on the blurred images before him. "Are you alright? You were tossing and turning."

Sherlock froze for a moment, and took in where he was. Where was the dank air? The chilly atmosphere the vile smelling tunnel he was trapped in? Where was the startling explosion that shook him to his very core even as he dreamt of it in his sleep? What was that... _thing_... that little thing in his memory that he just couldn't _quite_ remember?

He was in his flat, the flat he shared with John. On the hot, black leather sofa, sticky with his sweat.

"Yes..." He panted, as if he had lost his breath. "...Yes, I'm fine." And even in saying so he wiped his brow clean of the sheen there and moved his matted hair from his forehead. He must have looked a mess.

John still looked concerned. "Well... it was just a dream, anyway. I'll make you a cup of tea."

"Yes..." Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than anyone else as John turned the corner into the kitchen, "...It was just a dream."

"_**...Not bored now, are ya?"**_

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"Did Anderson call?" Sherlock asked John the second he stepped through their flat door. John turned his head round from the kitchen where he was studying Sherlock's latest insane experiment.

"Uh, yes." He answered tentatively, raising his voice so Sherlock would hear him round the corner. But his voice returned to its usual decibel as he approached the Consulting Detective as he hung his scarf on the back of the door. "Sherlock, what the hell is this you're doing with these eyes in a jar of blood? And why is it in the microwave again? I thought Mrs Hudson said you couldn't put eyes in the microwave again after the other little mishap."

"It wasn't a mishap," Sherlock snapped, his face as straight as a ruler, "Donovan interfered with my experiment by taking them out of the microwave in the first place. They wouldn't have exploded if she'd just left them be."

John sighed, that usual sickly feeling rising in his stomach again. He'd think he'd be used to it by now, after all the carnage from the war and the severed head in the fridge and all... but it still made him feel nauseated whenever he thought of those eyes exploding in the microwave. "I can't believe you made her clean that up."

Sherlock shrugged, breezing past the Doctor and straight into the kitchen to observe the jar John had been observing when he'd walked in. "I told her they were pickled eggs."

"Oh..." John muttered, swallowing down that awful sick lump in his throat. "Then what are you doing with these new eyes, then?"

Sherlock didn't watch his flatmate slowly walk up beside him to watch as he fondled the jar of eyes in the dark red liquid. He didn't even look up as he explained the purpose of the experiment. "I am testing to see if the boiling of the blood changes the colour of the eyes – what did Anderson say when he called?"

John was taken aback for a moment at what the Detective had said, but then had to return back to Earth so he could recall what Anderson had said. "Umm... He said that the blood tests were perfectly normal and that she had no disease or parasite whatsoever."

"Yes." Sherlock purred, staring right at the eyes bobbing up and down in the mud-coloured jar. "I thought as much."

"Is that why you're doing this experiment, then? You think her blood may have... _boiled_?"

Sherlock's bottom lip pouted out in thought and at irritation at the man beside him. "Yes, _boiled_, John, exactly."

The Doctor cleared his throat. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I thought you said that there was barely even half a pint of blood left?"

"Indeed I did. Perhaps it boiled and the steam evaporated out her ears, eyes, mouth and nose holes, did you consider that?"

John shrugged. "Well... no–,"

"Be quiet then."

The Doctor was silenced. He left the Consulting Detective to his work and went back into the living room to read the paper. It was eerily quiet in the flat for a good ten minutes, apart from the grotesque sloshing around the blood did in the jar every time Sherlock decided to move it. And it didn't help when Watson could feel the eyeballs staring at him through the liquid.

He sighed deeply and Sherlock inwardly groaned in frustration.

"What exactly are you doing, Sherlock? What proof do you have that her blood boiled anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't."

John's eyebrows knitted deeply in confusion and he just stared at his flatmate in disbelief. "Then why are you doing this experiment in the first place?"

Sherlock shrugged again, never looking up at John once, always concentrating on the eyes in the jar. "Call it intuition."

John couldn't react, because just then his phone blipped and he dug deep into his jean pockets to fish it out. He looked down at the text received and saw Sarah's name staring up at him. He opened up the tiny computer-generated envelope.

"Starbucks or Nando's?" Sherlock asked, simply, never tearing his eyes from his experiment. It was beginning to irritate John.

Throwing his arms up in frustration, Watson replied, "Alright. How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked; that sideways smirk he always wore when he knew more than anyone else. "It was fairly obvious. You always smile when you receive a text from Sarah, and your haste to reply was clear from the way your eyes darted across the message as if you wanted to read it quickly. It must be a coffee date because it's too late for lunch but too early for dinner so the only question left was Starbucks or Nando's?"

There was a pause in which Sherlock lifted his eyes slightly from his jar and at his flatmate, the smirk still playing on his features.

"Amazing," Watson exclaimed breathily.

"Alright, you can stop that now."

John left in a hurry to meet Sarah at – evidently – Starbucks. That was Holmes' first presumption. Now he could get on with his work in peace. Blood boiling? Perhaps. Even the Detective himself didn't expect anything to happen when he put the jar of blood and eggs into the microwave and set it on _high_ for ten minutes.

But when after just three minutes the blood was bubbling over the top of the jar and the metallic smell was starting to drive Sherlock up the walls, he stopped the microwave and removed the lid of the jar with his bare hands, completely ignoring any minor burns now occurring on his fingertips.

Because when he manically dipped an un-gloved hand into the jar of blood and fished out one of the eyes he noticed a terrifying result.

Its iris had turned from its hazel brown to a fiery red.

As Sherlock stared down at the eye, fascinated by his own insane '_intuition_', he couldn't help but sniff up at the metallic smell in their kitchen, allowing his nostrils to fill up with it, swimming right into his brain.

He didn't know what came over him, but one minute the jar was on the table and the next thing he knew it was in his hands and he was drinking the hot blood straight from the container – one red eye still inside.

It took him only a split second to down the pint of blood and leave only one eye rattling around inside, as he was still holding the other eye in his right hand.

Instantly realising, and instantly disgusted at what he had just done, his fingers went numb and the jar slipped from his grip and shattered into a million tiny pieces on the floor. He looked down at it as it broke, watching as the human eyeball rolled across the kitchen and hit off his shoe.

Within that same split second he was keeled over the kitchen sink – and with an awful retching sound the entire contents of the jar came up again.

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_**A/N: Not as long as the previous chapter, but I hope you enjoyed just the same. :) Yes, yes, you can call me disgusting or you can call me a genius, I suppose I am both. xD**_

_**I hope I didn't put you off too much.**_

_**Review!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	4. Three

_**She's on fire,  
Put her out,  
As a matter of fact,  
Take her out.  
'Cause she's on fire,  
Got on my knees and asked my lord to keep me clear from the devil 'cause my girl,  
she's on fire.**_

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from 'On Fire' by Lil Wayne©.**

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Sherlock never spoke to anyone about his little incident in the kitchen. He'd never really even believed it happened. Whether or not he'd sub-consciously cleaned up the mess when he'd passed out he didn't know, but all he did know was that Mrs Hudson or John never asked him about it. They didn't even act differently around him, which made him believe that nothing had changed.

Perhaps it was a dream?

Whatever it was, he knew that it wasn't something to be discussed lightly, nor to enter his thoughts again.

He didn't even know what came over him in the first place. What on _Earth_ could have possessed him to think that it would be a _good_ idea to _drink_ the blood he had placed _eyes_ in and then promptly _boiled _in the microwave?

No. He couldn't possibly have done it on a straight mind. Perhaps it was the fumes that confused him? Or the whole temperature of it all.

It was rather hot in that flat.

It was suffocating him, actually.

Sherlock sat up from the sofa on which he was resting and peered out through the window. It was dark outside, and when he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece he noticed it said six-thirty. The days were getting darker, quicker.

He decided to go for a walk – for some fresh air. John had come back a few hours ago, and he called out to him that he was leaving. Watson had muttered something incoherent, but the Detective didn't care. He just wanted to get _out_.

* * *

_Meanwhile_

Molly was in the morgue, alone as usual. Well, apart from all the dead bodies, but they weren't very talkative, so she would have to settle for listening to her thoughts, instead.

She chuckled lowly at her black humour, before filing away the report on the woman they'd found yesterday. She really was a strange one... There was nothing physically wrong with her at all, the autopsy showed. She didn't smoke, she didn't drink, and she didn't have any illnesses, according to Anderson's results. So what was wrong with her?

And more importantly what was wrong with her eyes...?

Molly had been pondering that all day. Her eyes; why were they red? It was her job to find out if anything else other than blood loss had killed her, and it was Sherlock's job to find out who had killed her in the first place.

She sighed into the empty morgue, slamming shut the heavy metal drawer and slumping onto her office swivel chair whilst listening to the clanging echo bounce around the huge white room.

Sherlock.

She loved watching him work, if she was honest. But she always felt like she got under his feet. Because, frankly, that's how he made her feel when she was around him – small, tiny; unimportant.

Her crush on him has been developing for years, she knows that. She has had a few other relationships in those few year periods, but nothing that has ever lasted more than a month or two.

She knew she was way out of Sherlock's league – if he even had one. His work is his baby; he doesn't have any time for women. Especially silly little girls like her that have petty crushes on him...

It was pathetic, she knew it was. But else are you supposed to do when you have a crush on someone for that length of time? She didn't love him, of course she didn't. If she loved him she would probably find it disturbing to go out with any other men but she doesn't mind it. That is, at least, when they show interest.

What was it? Was she too plain or something? She'd seen that sitcom, '_NCIS'_, and that girl '_Abbie'_ that works in the morgue on it is like _way_ out there with how she dresses. She kind of reminds her of '_Amy Lee'_ from that band, '_Evanescence'_.

Is that what it was? Did Sherlock like Goths and Emo's or something? She had nothing against them; in fact, she admired them for being so confident in their makeup and hair. It's all so striking, whereas she is so plain. Hmm...

She glanced to her left at the dead woman lying dead on the table, the thin, blue cloth covering her face.

Would Sherlock ever fall for someone like her?

In life, obviously. In life she must have been very pretty. But in death she was eerily thin from blood loss and her eyes and cheeks were hollowed in so much that Molly couldn't bear to look at it for a long period of time. But in life she suspected she must have had very thick, shiny hair. Not the lank, matted-blonde locks she had now. And rosy red cheeks and pink, plump lips... Now everything was just too thin. Jessica, her name was. Jessica Partridge.

She sighed again, and stood up lazily. She still had a job to do, and stewing about Sherlock wasn't going to get the job done any quicker.

Slumping over to the trolley holding the dead woman, she gently pushed it forward towards an empty shelf for her to sleep in for the night.

She couldn't help but chuckling lowly again at her own black humour, but in doing so she didn't notice the pencil on the floor. The cart ran over it but in the large room the small sound echoed loudly. Tutting, Molly bent down to pick up the pencil and placed it on her desk.

But Molly should learn to pay attention.

Because when her back was turned, she woman on the cart sat bolt-straight up and the sheet fell away effortlessly. Her eyes opened to reveal the still-red irises staring straight ahead – staring but not _really_ seeing.

And when Molly turned back to the trolley, she came within inches of the woman's face.

She hadn't even drawn breath before the scream left her mouth. But the dead woman didn't even flinch. She just kept staring directly into Molly's face – staring but not _looking_ at her.

But it was evident she knew Molly was there, as she reached out a thin, pale hand and grabbed Molly's wrist.

Molly screamed again – not only in fright but in pain. It wasn't that the woman had a firm grip, no. She had a very soft grip, just like a dead person would have. But it _burned_. It _scorched_ Molly's skin; it was so hot it felt as if she'd burnt herself getting something out of the oven.

Without thinking twice, Molly ripped her arm from the dead woman's grip, turned on her heel and ran straight from the morgue, a piercing scream echoing around her.

* * *

"_Molly_? Molly, what is it?" Detective Inspector Lestrade kept asking of the distraught young girl infront of him. She just kept screaming over and over, incoherent things that were so high-pitched that he couldn't make them out. He held her firmly by the shoulders to try and calm her, but she just kept staring at him widely, her face drained of all colour.

"Molly! _Molly_, calm down!" He yelled over the rabble of her own screaming as everyone gathered around to see what was going on. "Molly, I can't help you unless you tell me what has happened!"

And then she choked back a racked sob that shook her whole body and the DI could only make out a few words.

"_**IN THE MORGUE**_!"

He wasted no time in running as fast as possible to the morgue. He had no idea what would be in there, but whatever it was it scared the hell out of Molly.

"Anderson; you're coming with me."

Anderson followed closely behind, almost gingerly stepping past the hysterical Molly whilst Donovan quickly rushed to her aid, taking the girl in her arms and letting her sob uncontrollably into her chest.

Once the two men reached the morgue, they noticed two things straight away. One; one of the trolleys was turned over onto its side, and two; the dead body was gone.

The DI spun around on the spot, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers before scrunching up his eyes and observing the scene once again. What could have gone on here?

"Lestrade?" Anderson said quietly from behind him.

"What?" The DI snapped, a little taken aback by the state of Molly back there.

Anderson stepped forward. "I think you better look at this." And at that, he held out a beige-coloured tag infront of his face so he could see.

It was an ID tag tied around a corpse's wrist so families could identify it.

The name on it was Jessica Partridge.

* * *

_**A/N: Gah! What a cliffhanger, eh? ;) But anyway... I hope you're enjoying this so far. Any ideas of what the hell I was thinking, 'cause I sure don't have a clue! xD**_

_**Umm... I suggest reading this fanfiction with some sort of 'gothic' music playing in the background. Currently blasting from my laptop speakers right now is 'Red' but on my playlist is 'Skillet', 'Placebo', 'Linkin Park', 'Seether', 'Breaking Benjamin', 'Paramore' and 'Evanescence'. It really **__**sets the scene**__**. *grins madly***_

_**Review! :D:D**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	5. Four

_**The truth is hiding in your eyes,  
and it's hanging on your tongue.  
Just boiling in my blood,  
but you think that I can't see what kind of man that you are,  
if you're a man at all.  
Well I will figure this one out, on my own...**_

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from 'Decode' by Paramore©.**

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* * *

**

"_Where the hell have you been_?" John Watson shouted at his flatmate as he stumbled in at half past one in the morning. He looked perfectly sober, if not a little tired and confused. But John hadn't realised, he was too busy waving the mobile phone he was holding in Sherlock's face. "Do you see this? It's called a _mobile_! You're supposed to answer it when someone phones you!"

Sherlock just stood in the doorway, a single eyebrow arched high up on his head. He said nothing to the seething man before him.

John tutted, instantly cooling off his anger and replacing it with frustration and a little bit of disappointment. "Fine," He snapped, simply, "If you don't want you tell me where you've been, that's fine. But you need to get down to the station. _NOW_."

And at that, Watson barged past the Detective, being sure to hit him _hard _on the shoulder as he left. But it hurt him more than it did Sherlock, because Sherlock just felt numb. He felt... tingly. Tingly all over. Something was different. But the truth was; he couldn't for the damn of him remember what it was...

It was like that whole night was just a blur.

* * *

Sherlock and John got a taxi to Scotland Yard and were there in less than fifteen minutes. They never spoke a word to each other, but the ride there was a good chance for Sherlock to sober up. He felt much better now and just as the taxi pulled up out side the Police Station he mustered up the courage to ask John what they were doing here.

John's face was perfectly straight as he answered him, slamming the taxi door shut. "One of the stiffs has gone walkabouts."

Sherlock could have laughed if John hadn't stalked off in an oh-so-serious manner. Sherlock jogged not far behind, as John was taking rather large strides – once again proving to Sherlock that this was an extremely serious matter.

It was almost two o'clock in the morning but neither of the men were feeling tired. Not after Sherlock had had time to sober up in the cab, that is.

They entered through the big glass doors and were greeted by a hoard of frantic police men and women dashing around, some filing papers and some typing frantically onto computer keyboards, others just sat with others talking so fast their mouth was just a blur.

"What on Earth is going on?" Sherlock breathed – he'd never seen the police station like this before. Not even on one of its most compelling murder cases.

But he must admit; that was probably because within a matter of minutes of calling him the murderer was caught.

John didn't answer him, just kept on speeding ahead, rushing past all the people until he got to the stairs. He completely ignored the lift.

As soon as John took a step downwards into the basement he knew exactly where they were going. There was only the morgue down here; nothing else of interest. And he'd said that one of the stiffs had gone 'walkabouts'.

At this point, Sherlock felt compelled to ask another question, "When you say 'gone walkabouts' what exactly do you mean?"

John didn't reply. Sherlock didn't repeat.

He began fearing the worst. A corpse? How can a corpse suddenly pop up from the trolley and decide that they're going for a nice little stroll in the dark?

The huge, heavy metal doors were flung open and Sherlock stepped into a room of chaos. There were forensics everywhere, compartment spaces being opened and checked for other missing dead bodies; all sorts of mayhem. He saw Donovan comforting a very pale and exhausted Molly, who was shaking underneath her orange shock-blanket.

The poor girl.

DI Lestrade was dashing around like a madman, constantly asking people if they've found anything new, if they'd seen or heard anything at all whilst in the building.

John strolled in as if he was the Detective Inspector himself, straight over to Lestrade. Sherlock followed, spinning continuously on the spot to get a better examination of the room.

The only sign of violence was the turned-over trolley on the floor, now with white police marks around it so no one could move it. Nothing was smashed – nothing was taken, nothing seemed to have been touched at all.

Just as John and Sherlock got within five metres of the DI, Lestrade noticed them and a look of both frustration and relief washed over him, most like the sickly colour white had washed over Molly as she sat shaking in Sally Donovan's arms.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled in a thankful tone, but his gratitude didn't show up on his face. His expression was of pure concern, little beads of sweat already gathered on his forehead.

"Here he is," John said spitefully, his voice low amongst the rabble of the crowd, "Finally. He strolled in only half an hour ago."

Lestrade's face fell to one of confusion and his eyebrows knitted together. He looked to his watch, then back to Sherlock, his expression now one of complete shock. "It's three in the morning!"

Sherlock ignored both the men, and looked straight into the DI's face when he asked, "The dead woman?"

John sighed and turned away, hurrying off to help Donovan comfort Molly. Although it was a task no one wanted to be burdened with – comforting a hysterical woman? No thanks.

Lestrade folded his arms tightly over his chest, lifting his chin up to Sherlock. "John told you anything?" He asked, sceptically.

"Not a word." Sherlock answered, truthfully.

The DI nodded only once. "How do you know it's a woman?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side as if it was obvious, looking past the Detective Inspector and to Anderson at the other side of the room, who was fiddling nervously with a beige ID tag, pacing up and down, his face almost as pale as Molly's.

"Well, the tag Anderson is fondling has a pink ribbon. I know that Molly has a preferred system to use pink ribbon for the women's ID tags and blue for the men's – she says it makes it easier to determine which body is which so then she doesn't have to lift the sheet off the wrong body. I'm guessing this body was fresh, probably at most two days old; Molly was most likely going to put it away just before it went for walkies. So it's a recent body – what has been the most recent body found? Jessica Partridge."

"Bang on." The DI declared, and Sherlock repressed the urge to roll his eyes and say 'obviously'. "But the question is," Lestrade went on, his eyes narrowing in thought, "..._how_ did she just get up and walk out?"

"Are you sure that's actually what happened?" Sherlock asked, subtly, raising his eyebrows at Molly in the corner. He was hinting at hallucinations, perhaps dementia, or some underlying medical condition.

Lestrade didn't even flicker an eyelid at what Sherlock was suggesting. He only stuffed his hands in his pockets and pursed his lips, surely. "We have CCTV evidence."

* * *

Sherlock couldn't believe it. He just couldn't. But there it was; the rock hard evidence that no one could argue with – not even Sherlock Holmes. For there, in black and white on the screen right infront of him, was footage of Jessica Partridge – the dead woman they found no less than two days ago – walking straight through the police station and out the front door.

All she had to hide her modesty was the blue sheet used to cover the dead person's face wrapped around her pale white skin.

She still looked dead... But she was walking.

Sherlock didn't even have to lean in closer to the screen to notice that her lips were still the ice-cold blue they had been when they found her. She was still anorexic-looking – perhaps even like an _actual_ skeleton. Even though the sheet was wrapped around her, her neck, shoulders, feet and arms were exposed – as well as her face. Each looked just as bony as the next. Her shoulder blades and collar bones were revoltingly protruding from her skin, and her arms and fingers were so thin it looked like even a light tap on the arm could snap her bone in half.

She looked so fragile.

She even walked like she was fragile. But this was nothing to go by. How often does a dead person begin walking again? She sort of hobbled along, quickly scurrying from the station, but almost forcing herself to. She almost dragged her feet across the floor and her back was arched in effort, showing the top of her very reptilian spine.

He was sure that if none of the people there had grown accustom to seeing dead people every day that a few of them probably would have vomited all over the floor.

There was no doubt about it – she was definitely a dead woman walking.

In spite of the whole situation, in spite of the fact that a _dead woman had come back alive_, Sherlock asked the most simple of questions, "But where would she go? What business would a dead woman have?"

No one wanted to answer it – no one knew how. No one even knew how this thing was happening, let alone why. It went against _nature_; it went against more than 2000 years of knowledge – humans die, and once they go they're gone forever.

Maybe not.

An age passed before Lestrade came up with an answer for Sherlock's answer.

"Maybe she wants revenge?"

Yes... Sherlock thought, this was a perfectly logical assumption. Hell – even if it wasn't a logical answer, right at that moment all logic flew out the window. A dead woman had _walked out of a police station_; it's pretty safe to say that any suggestion is a good one at this point.

But for some reason, one that he didn't know of, he knew that if this had happened to him – if he had two puncture marks to his neck that had fatally killed him – he would want revenge, too...

* * *

_**A/N: Hey! Next chapter soon! :D I dunno if you hear this a lot (you probably don't :P) but I actually ENJOY my OWN story! xD How weird is that?**_

_**Anyway, even I'M excited for the next chapter, so you won't have to wait long! I will update soon, I promise!**_

_**The trailer for this is now on YouTube if you want to take a look. The link is:  
h t t p : / / w w w .you tube. com/watch?v=r0nYqSAMEtU**_

_**Reviews = love!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	6. Five

_**Tonight I'm so alone,  
This sorrow takes a hold,  
Don't leave me here so cold...  
Your touch used to be so kind,  
Your touch used to give me life,  
I've waited all this time.  
I've wasted so much time, don't leave me alone,  
'Cause I barely see at all,  
Don't leave me alone.  
I'm falling in the black; slippin' through the cracks,  
Falling to the depths, can I ever go back?  
Dreamin' of the way it is today,  
Can you hear me?**_

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from 'Falling Inside the Black' by Skillet©.**

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* * *

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He couldn't understand it. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had absolutely nothing to go on. No leads, no witnesses; nothing. Not even any CCTV cameras for about five miles had picked it up. He had absolutely no idea where a dead person would go – except a graveyard, but that's usually when they're in a coffin, and considering this one is up and moving about is another thing.

But the strangest thing was that no one on the streets had seen anything, either. Not his underground ears and eyes of the whole city – the homeless network – or the little old ladies with the twitching curtains. It was just as if she'd vanished, completely vanished into thin air.

Of course, despite this not getting out into the street in any way, the media were contacted. No one knows how; except Sherlock. He knew instantly, of course, that it was Anderson. He's a sucker for leaks – that's why his marriage is falling apart.

But, in a way, the media attention helped – if you can say that. After the story ran in the papers, everyone was on the lookout for this 'skeletal, pale corpse suspected to be wearing nothing but a blue paper sheet'. But not one single person reported in seeing her. Not a single one.

How did she do it? How was she able to just get up and walk out of a morgue – and then apparently disappear off the face of the Earth?

Urgh. It was unbelievable. One day it's BBC News and the next day it's the whole world. The whole world was buzzing about this one woman that had 'come back from the dead'. Some countries called her 'the Scotland Yard Zombie', while others called her 'the Conscious Cadaver' – the titles just got weirder and weirder; some of them even too weird for Mr Sherlock Holmes.

But he would find her. He knew he would. He wouldn't rest until she was found – whether that meant dead or alive. Or even _undead_, for that matter. Nothing mattered apart from finding her; she could give the vital clues for their investigation. Who had murdered her? Well... had he murdered her? Had he succeeded but... God gave her a miracle? Or had he just been unsuccessful and she's just slipped back to her house to recover and no one had noticed?

Whatever one it was, he was going to find her 'killer' and ultimately find _her_.

So far, no other cases had been reported around the globe. So that means that it wasn't some sort of virus spreading around. But extra CCTV cameras have been installed in the morgue and around the police station, and even night vision cameras in the holes in the wall for dead bodies.

Call it absurd – but it wasn't exactly _sane_, was it?

It was only two days later when Sherlock received another call from Detective Inspector Lestrade, this one at about six o'clock at night, confirming another killing. Cause of death? Significant blood loss. Wounds? Two punctures in the neck. Victim? Female. Name? Rebecca Ford.

_My God, it's happening again._

_

* * *

_

With this second killing, now creating an even bigger frenzy in the media, speculating that perhaps _this_ body would 're-animate' again, the police were now treating them as serial killings, just as Sherlock suspected would happen.

The police themselves didn't think it was necessary, but when Molly was in the morgue, she had to be accompanied by at least one other person and Rebecca's body strapped down onto the table every time it was left alone.

Nothing at all happened at first, and the police had calmed.

But two days later, Molly had to run out after a family emergency had occurred, and left Sally Donovan in the morgue. Molly said she would send down for Anderson, and when Anderson came, Sally had bailed – too frightened to stay in there; even with Anderson – and the big, heavy doors were locked.

Well, he thought, the doors are locked, and there are no windows in there, nothing bad can happen, right?

Wrong.

The next day at work, when the DI was looking over all the CCTV footage of that night, he gathered everyone around to watch. About fifteen colleagues gathered around one little tiny computer screen to watch Molly dash out and Sally left alone for a moment. She just stood there, looking around and biting her nails, before she turns and runs out the door, slamming it shut and locking it behind her. Not even five minutes later, the doors are shaken from the outside – by Anderson, of course – and then let be. But only twenty minutes after that, they all stared in horror as the sheet covering Rebecca Ford's face was slowly slipped off as the dead woman struggled against the restraints. She seemed much stronger than Jessica had when she'd walked out, but Rebecca hadn't lost as much blood as Jessica had. She struggled against the bonds for about a minute or so before she lunged for her wrist and bit the restraint off with her teeth.

Two of her teeth, actually – her two canines; now about an inch longer than they should be.

Once all her bonds had been torn and ripped away, she picked up the sheet from the floor, wrapped it round her, and ran head-first for the door.

She didn't bounce off it and smack her head off the floor like they'd expected her to; she actually dented it. She _dented_ a solid, thick metal door with her _skull_.

And as she kept ramming her cranium off this one dent, there was soon a gap in-between the doors, a gap just big enough for her to slip her arm through. She seemed to pick the lock with her fingernail, before casually pushing the doors open and calmly walking out of the station.

It was exactly the same as Jessica – no one saw her leave; it was as if she'd vaporised into thin air.

As the fifteen pairs of eyes stared disbelievingly at the screen, only one had the courage to whisper the one word no one wanted to speak out loud.

"_Vampire_."

* * *

You know those dreams where you're half awake, yet half asleep and in the dream you're falling, and you just keep falling and falling, down and down further into darker darkness than you've ever seen before. And then just before you hit the bottom, you violently jolt awake in your bed and you realise it was just a dream, your heart pumping harder than ever before.

Well when Sherlock dreamt it – he didn't just jolt himself awake, he fell completely from the bed. This woke John who was in the next room, of course, and he rushed in to help.

But the black... The black didn't go. Not even when John switched the light on, not when Sherlock scrambled up to turn his bedside lamp on – the dark was still there, still enclosing around him, and he was still falling, deeper and deeper; further and further until he would hit the floor. It suffocated him, squeezed all the life from him lungs, but he forced himself to breathe. It was easy – in, out; in, out.

But as he concentrated on breathing, he forgot that he was falling. Still falling, even though he was still firmly on the ground in his flat. The falling sensation – the darkness; the emptiness. He suddenly felt so _empty_.

Really. It was just a great big... _emptiness_ inside him. Nothing to fill it, nothing to bandage it, nothing to heal it. Not even as he looked into his flatmate's face and watched as his wide-eyes stared worriedly back.

"Sherlock?"

The two syllables spoken from John Watson's mouth were just like two echoes in the darkness. They bounced off the walls around him – around the ever-closing walls, still closing in on him – and rang in his ears like an unwanted, nagging voice.

_Let go. Let go._

He'd heard that voice before... Yes. Where had he heard it? He'd heard it... many times... It was... it was telling him to hurt people – to hurt John.

No. He wouldn't hurt John. Not John – why John? What had John done?

_Don't struggle. Don't struggle._

Sherlock struggled against John's hands, his mind only focused on disobeying the voice telling him to do bad things to good people.

"Sherlock!" John began shouting, over and over, louder and louder. But the louder it got – the quieter the voice made it, until only _it_ was left inside Sherlock's head.

_He isn't worried about you. He doesn't even care about what happens to you._

"No," Sherlock protested, aloud, his eyes squeezing tight as he continued to try and push John from him, "No – that's not true."

"Sherlock?" The doctor said again, this time as a question, "Who are you taking to? What's not true?"

But Sherlock couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear the concerned tone in his voice. He could just hear a ringing; an endless ringing, never ending, growing louder and louder as John got quieter. But he couldn't forget John – he couldn't loose himself.

_Isn't it? _The voice spat from the darkness, _He is just inconsiderate, ungrateful__Doctor Watson._

"No!" Sherlock shouted at the nothing, as his arms flared helplessly for something to grab onto. "No! He isn't like that!"

John pushed Sherlock's arms firmer down, with no avail. "Sherlock, stop– Mrs Hudson!" John yelled, letting go of the thrashing Consulting Detective as he apparently fought to the death with... nothing. Nothing was there. Who was he talking to?

His mind reeled back to what Sally Donovan had said to him the first day they'd met. He wasn't _really_ a psychopath, was he? The doctor honestly didn't know, but he just wanted his flatmate to get help – so he quickly ran out of the house and down the stairs to the floor below, banging frantically on Mrs Hudson's door.

_See? _The voice sneered again, _He doesn't care about you, Sherlock Holmes._

An involuntary scream ripped through Sherlock's throat as a great, agonising wave of pain overpowered his system. He couldn't hear – he couldn't see – he couldn't _breathe_. The pain was excruciating. Unbelievably and indescribably excruciating. He thought he was going to die; right then and there, he felt like he was going to die.

Any last words, Sherlock Holmes?

_We care about you, Mr Holmes... _Sherlock mentally cursed the voice inside his head, hoping it could hear him. He couldn't open his mouth to say it out loud, because he was biting down hard on his tongue so he would not scream again.

_...Join us._

Never!

_Are you sure?_

...Definitely.

_Well it would seem as though you already have._

And as the voice inside his head cackled cruelly, Sherlock's teeth ripped through his tongue and he cried out as the crimson liquid pooled up in his mouth.

The pain was numbing – he could no longer feel it. But he continued to scream. It wasn't a scream of pain, but a scream of defiance. He knew what was about to happen; he knew immediately as soon as he tasted the metallic liquid pouring from the gashes in his tongue.

He _liked _the taste of blood. He liked it. And because of that two women were dead.

_Another will die soon enough, Detective. _The voice whispered, and it was almost comforting to Sherlock. But inside he was screaming, and he continued screaming as he silently stood up, opened his bedroom window and jumped down two stories onto the street.

When John got back upstairs with Mr Hudson in tow, all that was left was a few drops of blood on the carpet. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen – but John feared the worst as he saw the night breeze blowing the maroon-coloured curtains from the open window.

"_Oh, no_."

* * *

_**A/N: Yeah, so that's Sherlock becoming a vampire! :D But John saw him. Well... saw him in pain. So where will this go? ;) Will John contact the police or leave it until Sherlock comes home?**_

_**Either way – is John in danger?**_

_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	7. Six

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

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John Watson may not be a detective, but he was certainly a bright man. He knew instantly that something very wrong was going on with Sherlock and he was determined to find out what.

So instead of waiting for Sherlock to come home, he called Lestrade, and asked him to come over immediately.

Of course he did – out of concern for his colleague and... friend – and he even brought Anderson with him, aswell. Well, Anderson didn't particularly want to come and help Sherlock, but he wanted to come and see what was wrong with him, just so he could use it to make fun of him later.

John explained what had happened, about how he came into Sherlock's room because he'd fallen out of the bed, about how he'd tried to calm him as he began shouting things at no one, and how he'd started screaming in agony when he'd gone to collect Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson was there, aswell, obviously. She hid in the background, just observing all the men as they filed into Sherlock's bedroom and had a look around. John showed them the few spots of blood on the floor and Anderson took some swabs. Apart from that, everything seemed normal.

At first, they'd thought that maybe Sherlock had some kind of disease or parasite, like they'd suspected the dead women of having, but what they found was far worse than anything they'd ever imagined.

After running the blood sample through the computer, it came up as a match for one person and one person alone – it wasn't Sherlock. No. It wasn't even Sherlock's blood. Because when the results came back and Anderson went to look, he saw the face of Jessica Partridge staring back at him.

* * *

"But..." John stammered, after being summoned to the police station to look at the results, "...But I don't understand. How can the blood on Sherlock's bedroom floor be from the dead woman – it came from his own mouth, he's had bleeding gums for about a week now."

Lestrade just shrugged and Anderson, who was standing beside him, folded his arms firmly across his chest and nodded his head in the direction of the computer screen John was disbelievingly staring at, "I've run the test three times, _Doctor_." He spat, "Unless you want to question the work of Scotland Yard I suggest you take these results for what they are – the truth."

"Alright, Anderson, that's enough," The DI snapped at him. John just ignored him and kept staring at the screen mindlessly. "Listen, we're all a little shaken up about this but we need you to help us, John."

At this, John's head snapped up and he looked directly into the Detective Inspector's face. He knew exactly what he was asking him to do; and at that moment in time he didn't see any reason why he should refuse. He didn't see the harm in it.

Not at that moment, anyway.

* * *

So when John returned home that night, he wasn't surprised to see that Sherlock had returned home and placed himself back on the sofa. He was still fully clothed, apart from one shoe that was lying callously on the floor beside him.

John just tutted and peeled off his jacket, quietly moving across the room on his tip-toes over to the armchair beside the fire. Shaking his head softly, he placed his jacket in the chair and looked back to Sherlock.

And just then, in the angle he was stood, and the way the thin ray of moonlight sliced through the curtains, he noticed something with Sherlock.

He looked perfectly normal – a little exhausted, of course, just like the other night he'd stumbled in late – apart from how his clothes were a little wrinkled. His coat was still on, but John just thought of it as a blanket for him, so he didn't try to remove it.

But when he took a step forward, he noticed something very strange.

It was something so little, something so insignificant, he was sure that even Sherlock himself wouldn't have noticed it. He wouldn't have noticed it if the curtains weren't open just that little bit – enough for the moonlight to beam through, directly onto Sherlock's face.

John stepped closer until he was standing directly above him. His face looked normal, also; a sleeping man's face. His mouth was agape just slightly, whilst he breathed nasally in and out through his nose. He looked perfectly contented and relaxed. Nothing unusual there.

But what John did find unusual was that one spot of blood on Sherlock's ear.

He found it unusual _indeed_ – so much so that he tip-toed into the bathroom to collect a cotton swab and carefully wiped away the blood on Sherlock's ear with it. And at that, he grabbed his coat again and quietly left the flat.

* * *

"Where did you run off to last night?" John quietly asked his flatmate, peering over the large newspaper he was reading.

Sherlock looked up at him under his brow. He was sat on the sofa, sipping some coffee John had made him that morning. He hadn't been up long and he had a splitting headache. He made a face.

"What?" John asked quickly.

"This coffee," Sherlock replied, "It's disgusting."

"But it's black with two sugars – just how you like it."

"No I don't; it's revolting." And at that, Sherlock stood up, opened the living room window and tipped the cup upside down. All the contents inside fell out, but were carried by the wind for a second before the brown liquid fell and landed on an unknowing passer-by. As the man yelled in surprise, Sherlock shouted his apologies out the window before slamming it shut and sitting back down on the sofa, rubbing his hands together.

John just looked at him, disbelieving. "What was that? You know there is a sink just over there–"

Sherlock groaned loudly, closing his eyes and rubbing his palms into them, cutting John off. John sighed and turned back to his newspaper, watching his flatmate out the corner of his eye.

"You never answered my question." John said, just as quietly as he had begun, but this time he kept his eyes on the paper.

There was a pause for a moment, before Sherlock replied placidly, "Why should I?"

And as John began explaining, the Consulting Detective stood up and began twirling round the room, looking under ever scrap of paper and on every shelf for something. "Well, maybe because I am your flatmate and if you are flitting off to meet some mystery woman... no, no woman would talk to you outside of work. Okay well, wherever you flit off to I think I should know, because I don't want you getting into any trouble or... Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I need a nicotine patch." He said, lifting a plant pot above his head to look beneath it. He pulled a distorted face when he discovered nothing but dust and let the plant pot fall from his fingers. It landed on the floor behind him, and the pot smashed and compost was spread all over the carpet.

"Sherlock what are you doing?" John yelled, running over to pick up the chunks of china.

"I told you," Sherlock replied, his voice deep, "I'm looking for a nicotine patch."

"That doesn't mean you have to take it out on the plant!"

"Doesn't mean I can't."

John just sighed again and ran into the kitchen to pick up a pan and brush. By the time he came back, Sherlock had found the packet of patches slipped in between a pile of books and was tearing at the packaging like an animal.

He just looked at him for a moment. "Gasping, are you?" John asked, half-sarcastically.

Sherlock completely ignored him, just frantically pushed up his shirt sleeve and slapped on a patch. He stood still for a moment and pondered, before slapping another two on there.

A small smile flickered on his face.

"Better?" John asked, almost tired of this daily routine.

Sherlock shook his head. "No." And at that, he tipped the box upside down and another four patches fell out. He slapped them all onto his other arm and then threw the box down at his feet.

"It's not enough!"

"Not enou– Sherlock, you're smoking about three cigarettes at once, that _is_ enough!"

"No it isn't," Sherlock said, jumping around the flat looking for another pack of nicotine patches, but even he knew that there was none left, "I'm still gasping."

"For what?" John yelled, anger boiling over. Sherlock seriously had a problem.

But the Consulting Detective completely ignored him and moved on to the kitchen. Almost at that exact moment, the door to their flat was forced open and DI Lestrade strolled in, followed by another three police officers.

"Sherlock – where is he?" Lestrade asked John, his distressed face as straight as a pin. John didn't need to answer because Sherlock came staggering in from the kitchen, his expression one of surprise.

Lestrade pointed a single finger at Sherlock and turned away to his police officers, saying quietly, "Arrest him."

"You're arresting him?" John yelled, standing up from his chair and watching helplessly as two of the officers held Sherlock's arms and the third handcuffed him. "What for?"

The DI completely ignored John, but stood straight in front of a very calm looking Sherlock – if not a little surprised – and told him, sternly, "Sherlock Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jessica Partridge, Rebecca Ford and Abigail Thomas."

"Wait– who's Abigail Thomas?" John asked, one arm stretched out towards Sherlock as if to grab him if anything was to happen.

Lestrade switched his gaze from Sherlock to John and replied, flatly, "Remember that blood sample you gave us last night; the one off Sherlock's ear?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped onto John's face and he could feel them burning into his skin. "Yes?"

"Well it belongs to Abigail Thomas. Her body was found this morning."

* * *

**_A/N: Short chapter, sorry. ;) I think I'll leave it there... Hmm..._**

**_So! Do they know Sherlock is a vampire – or do they just think he murdered them with a metal object like he'd described? All will be revealed soon enough, my lovelies!_**

**_Reviews = love! Share the love!_**

**_Kelly xxx_**


	8. Seven

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

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It was unbelievable. Really, it was; it was simply unbelievable. Unbelievable that they would suspect him, _him_ – Sherlock Holmes, of murdering three innocent woman. Unbelievable.

But somehow it all fit. Of course, he knew he didn't do it, but he knew he was looking for a man very similar to him. He was glad the police had gotten something right for once – even if they had arrested completely the wrong man.

Footprint analyses in all three of the women's bedrooms confirm that a size eleven shoe had entered their bedrooms. Approximately six foot, they said. Sherlock was six foot one.

That was their first mistake – their second mistake was that if Sherlock was hunting himself surely he would have known that the minute Detective Lestrade called him? Because of course he would know if he was the murderer; _he had murdered them for Christ sake_! How could he _not_ know if he'd murdered someone?

When Sherlock put this question forth to the DI sat across the cold, black table from him, his fingers locked together and his hands casually resting on the table before him, Lestrade replied with only a glare made of daggers and a voice of ice, "You should know that one, Sherlock. A brilliant mind like yours – _come on_. Obviously somewhere in your mind your brain didn't want you to remember the horrific things you did to those women; '_deleted it_', as you would say."

Sherlock responded with only an irritated tut and leant back in his hard plastic chair, looking about the room with shifty eyes.

It was the interrogating room. He'd never been in here before – not even to question someone. It wasn't his job, after all. But he had walked past it several times on his rounds around the police station; and, of course, he had seen it on TV. Crime Scene Investigation and things like that. John liked to point out that the only reason Sherlock watched those shows was so he could shout out who the murderer was before the second advert had even come on (and be exactly right), and to point out everything wrong with them.

But the interrogation room was much more intimidating on the inside than it was when you peered in through the door or saw it on the TV screen. It was much more surreal; it made him feel suffocated. Its dark lighting and that huge reflective mirror behind the DI, behind which he could feel Sergeant Donovan and Anderson's eyes on him and they sniggered amongst themselves like little children, made him small. The walls had a padded feel about them, only rekindling memories of Donovan's preferred nickname for him – and, of course, what everyone accused him of being even though he was a sociopath; nothing else.

And by 'nothing else' he meant he was _not_ a murderer.

He voiced this aloud, instead of answering the DI's previous comment. Lestrade just sighed and sat back in his chair, drumming his fingers loudly against the glass table.

"If you're not the murderer, Sherlock," The DI said, almost in a considerate tone, but his eyes gave him away – no expression touched them, "then how can you explain why we found a spot of blood belonging to _Abigail Thomas_ on your left ear the night before we discovered her body?"

Sherlock sat forward again, pressing his hands together in his usual 'preying' position, before resting his elbows on the table and placing his chin on the tops of his fingers. He narrowed his eyes at the Detective Inspector before answering his question coldly, "Very easily, Detective." He saw Lestrade's face fall. "I happen to have took a walk that night; John should remember–,"

"We _all_ remember Sherlock, John told us everything." Lestrade snapped, cutting Sherlock off.

It took Sherlock a moment to respond. "Oh." He said, quietly. "Well, I suppose you could ask around, I'm sure someone would have seen me – there's my alibi, Detective. Secondly–,"

"Sherlock, I don't think you understand," Lestrade interrupted again, this time his tone was much more confused. He leant forward in his chair for a moment so he could talk in a lower tone of voice. "John told us about what happened that night – you know, about how you fell out of your bed, yelling out strange things and then crying out in pain?"

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows firmly together. That wasn't what happened...

"No," Sherlock replied, slowly, as if addressing a child, "I fell out of my bed, told John I wanted to clear my head and went for a walk."

Lestrade knitted his eyebrows, then, looking Sherlock directly in the face as he replied, surely, "No you didn't Sherlock. And do you want to know why I'm taking Doctor Watson's word over yours?"

"Because you assume I am a murderer, obviously," Sherlock snapped almost immediately after Lestrade had finished his sentence. The DI was not shaken, however.

"No, Sherlock, I am taking Doctor Watson's word over yours because we found Jessica Partridge's blood on the floor of your bedroom – now how do you explain that?" Lestrade's eyebrows were still knit, as if he himself was deep in thought of these women's murders.

Sherlock just smirked at him. "Please, Detective, let me finish my answer to your first question before you go charging into your second."

Lestrade leant back in his chair again, his face completely relaxed as he gestured for Sherlock to carry on, the look on his face saying he was 'all ears'.

Sherlock nodded appreciatively before continuing his answer of the first question as if he re-connected the needle on a record player to the record, "That spot of blood on my ear possibly could have happened whilst I was out walking. Perhaps I walked beneath the balcony you found Abigail's body on and it landed on me whilst the murderer stabbed her; perhaps it landed on me when the murderer ran either past me or over me in his bid to escape; perhaps–,"

"Hold on, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted, again. Sherlock ground his back teeth together in order to prevent himself from screaming at the DI – he asked him a question; why wouldn't he let him answer it?

But his grinding stopped as he looked back to see Lestrade's expression. It wasn't his hinted confusion earlier, or even his mocked confusion, but this was _real_ confusion. Pure and chaste – complete confusion in its best of forms; right on the face of a Detective Inspector.

"No one said anything about finding Abigail Thomas' body on a balcony."

There was a beat, in which everyone in the room (even the ones stood behind the glass mirror) glanced around at one another, then back to Sherlock to look for his reaction.

But of all the things the only Consulting Detective in the world wanted to say, only one small, barely-audible sentence left his wisdom-spilling lips, "No... No, they must have done. How else would I have known?"

At that, Lestrade's expression grew dark. "...Yes, how else, Sherlock, exactly."

"_I did not murder those women_!"

It wasn't that he had shouted, or that his face was now contorted into a twisted, animalistic expression, that made the DI before him and Donovan and Anderson behind the screen jump; it was how hard he'd slammed his fists onto the table. For a moment, they all held their breath as they thought it would smash – really. They actually thought that Sherlock Holmes would smash that table with his fists. But the table held firm, much like Sherlock himself.

It took a moment, but Sherlock soon realised what had come over him. He just felt _so angry_. How could Lestrade – his colleague, his... _friend_ – think that _he_, Sherlock Holmes, had committed these terrible crimes? It was unbelievable.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to smash his head off the table infront of him, continuously pounding his forehead against it until he either passed out or the glass smashed. He wouldn't care for blood – he didn't care for blood. Blood was just a minor detail; something to wipe away, later. But all he wanted to do was wipe away the anger. But the anger wouldn't leave him be. Much like the powder still left on a chalkboard, no matter how much the eraser scraped at it. It was like that, just a little powder on his mind but it infuriated him. Yes, anger infuriated him further. He was _angry _that he was angry. And the only way to suppress his anger – Sherlock thought at that moment – was to smash his head off the table; over and over until he either saw spots of the table shattered beneath him.

He looked up to the DI with wide eyes. Not only were the police officers watching him shocked at what he'd just done – he was, aswell.

At this, he stood up so quickly he was a blur, sending the hard plastic chair skidding across the floor. The thickset security guard standing behind Lestrade didn't move, apart from a little twitch of his fingers as his mind flickered to the cane attached to his belt. Sherlock wouldn't have doubted that he'd use it, but Sherlock wasn't an ordinary man. He could see right through his cold steel eyes and even in his hairline that this security guard had had a horrible childhood and had vowed never to become his father – that's why he wouldn't use his cane on Sherlock, even if he had to. He wouldn't become that man that still haunted his dreams every night. Sherlock would have pitied him if he wasn't so wrapped up in his own problems.

The Consulting Detective began pacing the room, up and down the floorboards very quickly, barely even giving his legs enough time to keep up with his brain as he kept turning, stepping, turning again and stepping. It was all so fast Lestrade could have assumed it was something from a cartoon, but he could see Sherlock's hands shaking as he ran his fingers frustratedly through his hair.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, obviously concerned, even though he was trying his very best – ineffectively – to hide it.

Sherlock ignored him completely, just continued rubbing the dull black and white tiles raw as he paced. He was staring straight ahead, his hands still in his hair, although not touching his scalp, shaking uncontrollably. "I need a cigarette."

"What?"

"_I need a cigarette_!"

"Alright, Sherlock," Lestrade replied quietly, not as surprised by Sherlock's second outburst, "Okay, we'll get you a cigarette."

Lestrade gestured to the security guard behind him, only a little nod of the head, but the man understood clearly. He quickly bustled from the room, careful not to hit Sherlock as he began pacing again, more frantically than before. He rubbed his hands together, the sound of the friction on his palms as loud in his ears as the drumming of his blood was.

Dear God, what _was_ this relentless craving? Nicotine patches couldn't rid him of it, and his last remaining hope was a cigarette itself. Perhaps he was missing the smell of the smoke – was that it? He hoped to God it was because he would not be able to handle food cravings...

The security guard returned shortly after with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He placed them both on the table beside Lestrade, but barely a second after his fingers left the packet Sherlock was clawing at them, ripping the box open, practically and pulling out a cigarette. Then, he let the packet fall back onto the table, three more cigarettes rolling from the now-torn packet. Lestrade just watched as he flicked on the lighter with shaking fingers and lit up the cigarette now sandwiched loosely between his lips.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, before blowing out the smoke in one large gust of wind. He pondered for a moment and screamed inwardly.

_It wasn't enough._

He scrambled for the packet again, this time removing another two and placing them in his mouth alongside the lit one.

"Whoa– Sherlock!"

Sherlock ignored the Detective Inspector and lit up the two new cigarettes.

"Sherlock, that's enough!" Lestrade yelled, taking the cigarette packet and the lighter from Sherlock before handing them back to the security guard who placed them in his pockets, not wanting to leave the room when Sherlock was in a state like this.

_But Sherlock knew it wasn't enough_. Not even as he took deeper and deeper drags on his three cigarettes, inhaling almost to the point of light-headedness. He knew that it was no longer cigarettes he craved – he just had no idea _what it was_.

With a growl, he took all three cigarettes from his mouth at once, threw them on the floor at his feet and stamped them out, madly. Once they were nothing but wrinkled paper and scattered tobacco on the floor, Sherlock stood up normally and covered his face with both his hands, running his fingers down his cheeks until they fell from his chin and he collapsed onto the chair now pushed about a metre away from the table Lestrade was sitting at.

Lestrade's expression was one of complete bewilderment – a combination of astonishment and misunderstanding. There was also a trace of disgust and concern; what had gotten into Sherlock all of a sudden?

There was a long pause, in which the only thing that could be heard was Sherlock's shallow breathing, before Lestrade informed Sherlock, quietly, "...You were doing really well, you know," referring to the nicotine patches.

Sherlock shook his head ferociously, but kept his lips tightly sealed. He didn't care about cigarettes anymore. Cigarettes no longer existed to him – they were for nothing more than to pollute the atmosphere.

Lestrade was quiet for another moment before getting straight to the point. He had been dying to ask Sherlock this question ever since they arrested him at his flat. "Are you a... vampire... Sherlock?" Even in his head the question had sounded absurd, so he wasn't surprised when it sounded utterly ridiculous coming from his mouth. But Sherlock just sighed and leant back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table top and his left leg quivering quickly as he positioned his foot on a nerve. He really did look like a junkie after his fix.

Sherlock's tone was dull, uninterested, slow, "Vampires are mythical creatures, Lestrade. And if they did exist they would be smarter than to turn me into one."

Lestrade knit his eyebrows, "Why do you think that?"

Sherlock just smirked; his leg and his hands both ceased their movements, "Because I am too clever for them."

Lestrade huffed a little laugh, '_huh_', and smiled at the man before him. He may be up for murder but Sherlock hadn't lost his sense of humour – his own sarcastic wit that made him... well, Sherlock. He didn't ask another question, just watched as Sherlock nervously began flitting his eyes about the room, his drumming fingers starting up again as he fidgeted in his chair. Now that _wasn't _like Sherlock at all.

Without another word, he stood up quietly and carefully before slipping out the room and straight into the room next door where Anderson and Donovan were sat, looking through the glass and at Sherlock as he slumped his head against the table and closed his eyes.

Anderson spoke up before the door had even closed behind the DI. "I say we keep him in for overnight observation."

"You know he'd never consent to that, Anderson," Lestrade answered quickly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and not taking a seat. He suddenly felt like standing – standing and waiting.

Anderson shrugged his shoulders. "So?" His voice was calm, uncaring; it worried the Detective Inspector, "This is a murder enquiry, not a bloody free-for-all."

Lestrade felt a bubble of anger boil in the middle of his chest at Anderson's choice of words. One too many times he would try to push past his boundaries. Sometimes Lestrade thought that he forgot that he was his boss, "Is that how you think I am treating this, Anderson?" He asked, his voice reflecting Anderson's, "A free-for-all?"

"No, Detective Inspector, I was just saying–,"

"Well _don't _say!" Lestrade snapped. He was beginning to grow tired of Anderson's voice already. He knew that deep down; he wanted not to find the man that killed those three women but to humiliate Sherlock if _he_ _was_ the killer. It made him sick to his stomach. When Sally spoke, she reminded him that she was no better.

"Doctor Watson could consent to it. I'm sure he thinks Sherlock is innocent, so obviously he'd want to do anything he could to prove his innocence."

Lestrade pondered this for a moment. If he let Sherlock go (especially after the rock-hard evidence they had gathered) he knew he would be in hot water for quite some time. But if he kept Sherlock in overnight observation then perhaps they could finally get some answers.

Anderson decided to press further, noticing the DI's torn expression, "Sir, you saw that CCTV footage – we _all_ did! Now if there is just a _slight_ possibility that Sherlock did that to those women than the most logical thing to do would be to lock him up for observation. If another murder does not occur..." He paused, "...or if Sherlock does not grow fangs during the night..." Sally suppressed her urge to laugh, "...then we can rule him out as the killer and he can go home – no harm done."

"Hmm," Lestrade droned, looking out the window and to Sherlock, who was now sitting up straight in his chair, his hands in his usual 'preying' position, "No harm done except to his pride." The Detective sighed.

"But if Sherlock is a... _vampire_," The word sounded foreign on his tongue; never before in his ten-year career as a police officer had he expected to say those words, "then how do we know he won't just break free of his cell like Rebecca Ford and murder another woman?"

Anderson shook his head, "We will get to him first, won't we? As soon as we hear the screeching of that metal he won't get far. They could transfer him to a more secure cell–,"

"Don't be stupid, Anderson, Rebecca Ford escaped the morgue by _denting the door with her skull_. Do you really think bars and a five-inch thick door is going to keep Sherlock out if he _is_ responsible?"

Anderson shrugged again, his eyes twinkling, "It doesn't matter – because then we will now Sherlock is the killer and proceed to..." His eyes locked with Sally's for just a second, and that second of silence was all it took for Lestrade to put two and two together. That was his job, after all.

"No," was all he said. Just one word – just one syllable, but Anderson knew exactly what he was refusing to.

"But sir, please–,"

"_I said __**no**__, Anderson_!" The DI snapped impatiently, a little louder than intended, but shook himself clean of it. There was no way they were going to even think about attempting that again. It was barbaric, it was monstrous, it was... _inhumane_.

No. Just no.

"I will put him up for overnight observation; but that is it. When the time comes we will figure out what to do in case of _that_," an involuntary shiver ran down the Detective's spine as everyone in that room knew what '_that_' meant, "but for now – that is all."

And with the last word spoken, the DI turned on his heel and exited the room, preparing to break the news to an unknowing Doctor Watson who was sitting only a few corridors away.

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_**A/N: A longer chapter to make up for the short ones I usually put up. :) I hope you liked this one and weren't too bored with the lack of action in it.**_

_**Ugh. I seriously LOVE this story so far and how its progressing, I think it is brilliant – by far the best story I've written so far, I think (One-Shot's aside). How about you? ;)**_

_**Thanks for reading! Reviews are love – reviewers get to shout at Anderson for being such a prick. *ahem* (I apologize for the language; but I wonder if any of you figured out what '**__**that**__**' was yet... I hope not.)**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	9. Eight

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

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When John Watson gave that evidence to the police he did it out of the goodness of his heart. All he wanted to do was help – that was all. Help the case. He hadn't suspected for at least one moment that the police would arrest him for it; he had no idea himself why he would want to kill those women – that is, if he _had_ killed them, of course.

But the thought had never crossed John's mind that they would want to keep Sherlock in a call overnight, suspecting him of being a... John didn't want to say the word. It was just wrong.

So many questions ran through his head. If Sherlock was a vampire – why was he still alive? Something in the back of his mind told him that the fact he had an X _and_ Y chromosome contributed to it, but he shrugged it off with another argument. If that was the case why was Mrs Hudson still alive? And then that annoying thought occurred again – Mrs Hudson was too old for Sherlock.

John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. Sherlock had only been under questioning for about half an hour before he saw Lestrade quickly walking towards him up the corridor. He hadn't known what he had wanted him for in that moment; he even felt happy for a second at the thought of him telling him Sherlock was a allowed to go home, but his heart sank when it was completely the opposite and they wanted to keep him in another night.

Who was he to argue with the judgement of the police? He was Sherlock's friend, colleague, flatmate – call it what you will; but he would not let them accuse an innocent man, a man who had helped them solve countless cases, of _murdering_ three women. No, sir.

Lestrade wasn't surprised with his outburst, he was probably used to it; he had been in this job for a long time. But he did reach round and put a comforting arm around the Doctor's shoulders as his face screwed up in a bid to push away the angry tears. Silly, really, wasn't it? Why was he crying, of all things? Sherlock was innocent – no doubt about it. So why did he feel so upset at the thought of them treating him like he _wasn't_?

He knew exactly why: because it was all his fault.

What choice did he have but to comply with the DI's wishes?

* * *

Sherlock sat in his pitch-black cell, alone. The lights had been turned out about an hour and a half ago, but Sherlock still sat up on his bed, wearing his tatty grey pyjamas John had politely persuaded the DI to let him wear. Sherlock hadn't complained about the pyjamas they were going to make him wear, but Lestrade knew how guilty John felt so he agreed.

His knees were lifted up until his thighs touched his chest and his arms were wrapped around his legs tightly. He felt it was a bid of security. Although he felt perfectly safe at the police station – he was the only one in the overnight cells, so there was no one there to go '_Shawkshank_' on him and call him names until he 'cracked'. Because Sherlock felt very close to cracking; and he was alone.

Well... he knew that physically he wasn't alone. But mentally was a different matter.

He hoped that he wouldn't show his weakness. Sure, he looked rather frightened and insecure at that moment, huddled up to himself like he was, but he hoped the police just put that down to either insomnia or because it was his first night in prison. He hoped that if he just lay down and went to sleep than they wouldn't think twice about letting him go home the next day. Home to John and Mrs Hudson. Home; 221B Baker Street. It had never sounded so welcoming before.

But he knew that even there he would not be safe from them. The voices in his head. He heard them every night, but only on some nights did they actually carry out what they were trying to make him do. It was as thought they had a vice-tight grip on his brain, twisting it to their will and making him their puppet – they pull a string and he dances at their will.

It reminded him of something Moriarty had said to him, just not in his own voice. He liked to watch him dance.

He hadn't heard from Moriarty since the swimming pool incident. He knew he had lived, of course he had. On the news it had said nothing about casualties, so he knew his dear 'Jim' had escaped with his henchmen. Whereas he and John had had to scramble frantically into the swimming pool in a big to escape the fatal impact of the bomb. Scratches, bruises; they were nothing. Broken bones, haemorrhages; they were nothing, either. But a criminal getting away? Now that hurt Sherlock the most.

But a brilliant criminal like Moriarty? Now the thought of having to chase him down again excited him more than it disappointed him.

John hadn't winged in the slightest, Sherlock found. He was extremely brave, was Doctor Watson. Sherlock was proud of him – proud of his courage and his Doctor's stamina. He had managed to tend both to himself and Sherlock before the ambulance got there. With the huge gash in Sherlock's forehead and the equally large gash in John's leg, John didn't even wince. He just held Sherlock's head up and tried to sustain some of the bleeding. Sherlock pushed him away, insisting he see to his leg, first, even though he was blinded by his own blood pouring down his forehead. John didn't listen. Later, John was told that his quick thinking may have saved both their lives. Sherlock was grateful, although he may never have showed it.

Well, that was a lie. He had shown it in many subtle ways – just whether John had picked up on any of them was a different matter.

After another half an hour of waiting – _the relentless waiting_ – for the voices to emerge, he found that all was quiet in his head, so he slowly turned on his side and laid down on the hard, thin mattress.

He hadn't wanted the voices to come, of course he hadn't. But as sleep consumed him and his eyelids began to droop, he couldn't help but be curious as to why they chose not to bother him that night.

_What was different_?

* * *

Sherlock went home the next day. He noticed that Lestrade looked a little annoyed that their only suspect was walking away, but also at relief that he hadn't had to arrest a friend. But Anderson was much less subtle about the way he felt. The scowl barely left his face as Sherlock stepped free of his cell and smiled a small smile at the Detective Inspector.

"Did you not find any more evidence against me, Detective?" He asked, civilly, barely concealing the impatience in his voice. If not, then he spent a night in that cell for nothing.

Lestrade shook his head. "No. No more than what we have now – which I should tell you we will not forget. We still want to know how blood from two of the victims ended up in your bedroom and on your ear."

Sherlock smiled graciously at him, nodding his head only once. "Certainly."

Lestrade sighed, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes as he said, quietly, "But we had to let you go because..." He glanced over to Anderson, who looked away in shame. He couldn't face being wrong, especially not in front of his boss. "...there was another murder last night."

Sherlock could have laughed. He really could have. Oh, the irony of it all. But he didn't let this show, however, and he immediately snapped back into thought when something hit him. He had ruined his pattern... The serial killer had broken his pattern. Usually he killed the women two days apart but now this one was only a day since the last. Now he had made his first mistake, Sherlock wondered if he would make any more. Hmm... _One step closer_, he thought to himself.

He said no more, and stepped past Lestrade and turned the corner, pretending to leave. But there was more here... He could read it in Lestrade's face. There was something he wasn't telling him. So he pressed his back against the wall and listened as the DI sighed in relief.

It didn't take long for Anderson to start squawking. "Sir, you can't let him go yet!"

"I had to, Anderson, I had no other choice. The man's alibi is rock solid, he didn't murder those women."

Anderson exhaled deeply through his nose in frustration. "Yes, for the alibi of this murder but what about the _others_? What about the _blood_, sir? And the DNA from _under the victim's fingernails_!"

He immediately heard the anger rising in Lestrade's voice at being shouted at by one of his colleagues. His _lesser_ colleagues, in fact, "Anderson, I do not appreciate your tone." He began, politely snapping at him, "And I've already told you _I do not know_ how to explain that evidence but I couldn't hold Sherlock another day. If we have to, we will arrest him again and again and again. But the killing last night proves that either Sherlock just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time or that there is more than one person involved in this, so..."

Lestrade's harsh voice trailed off, and Sherlock pricked up his ears at the silence.

"...Sir?"

"There's more than one person involved." Lestrade whispered, his voice a mask of horror. Sherlock didn't understand; he had told him that at the beginning. A gang killing, why was he just now realising it?

Silence followed again, and Anderson sounded much more interested. "Sir?"

"Anderson, you saw what happened to Rebecca Ford on the CCTV footage. Her teeth?"

Immediately Sherlock's brain clicked into focus. For a moment he was shocked beyond belief, and then flickered frustration at the fact that people were being as stupid as to think Vampires were behind these killings.

"You... you think Rebecca Ford killed that one last night?" Anderson asked quietly, his voice unstable.

"I'm not sure." Lestrade said, his tone in total awe and thought, "It could have been either her or Jessica. If they were both bitten then they are both Vampires." He suddenly didn't feel so silly putting it into words now, and they flowed easily like they always do when he realises something crucial to a case. His police-man senses were kicking in.

Sherlock felt the brainwaves radiate to Anderson's small head. "Sir... What about Abigail Thomas? In the morgue – _what about Molly_?"

And at that, Sherlock ran down the corridor he was hiding, because he heard the frantic footsteps of Lestrade and Anderson as they rushed out and down the opposite corridor, wanting to get to the morgue fast.

Sherlock knew what they would come to the conclusion of. He knew he would end up in jail again, for sure. No. He had to go back to Baker Street, quickly; he had to inform John–

No, he couldn't tell John... He couldn't make John susceptible to questioning like that... No. He would just leave, and leave as fast as he could. He knew many people in the homeless network, he would be fine. There were plenty of people around that owe him a favour.

Yes. He would get away. And get away fast.

At that, he charged determinately out of the police station and down the street to the unknown.

* * *

_**A/N: Oh, dear. Sherlock is running away... I didn't really peg Sherlock as the running away type, but perhaps Sherlock isn't Sherlock anymore...**_

_**No more words from me, my lovelies.**_

_**Your reviews are love!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_

_**PS, I have an official website now! ^_^ I'm really excited about it, so if you would go check it out that would mean a lot to me.  
h t t p: / w w w. tacoshelby. webs. com**_


	10. Nine

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

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John sat alone at home in 221B Baker Street in his favourite armchair. He kept glancing behind him at the door and then out of the window onto the street. He decided it would be easier to watch people pass by than wait for Sherlock to return. He wondered if he would be angry at him. John inwardly laughed, darkly, at himself. Of course he would be angry. He'd told John multiple times that it was better to let him do his work without interfering with the police, and on this one time John had gone behind his back to Lestrade – and in result ended him in an overnight observation cell.

An involuntary shiver ran down John's spine and instead of accepting it for what it was, he stood up and closed the window, preferring his excuse to the truth.

If he'd done that a few days ago, Sherlock would have never had to go in that cell. Stupid, John. Stupid!

But then his army-side would kick in. His serious-thinking head would slot into place and he would begin to weigh the most reasonable arguments against the side that was loyal to Sherlock – his flatmate, his friend. If Sherlock had killed those women; didn't he deserve to be brought to justice? Of course he did, just like every other criminal Sherlock has caught in the past deserved to. Having the name 'Sherlock Holmes' didn't make him liable to just a slap on the wrist after three women were lying dead.

And then his loyal side would kick in, the side that told him it was wrong to give evidence against Sherlock to the police. But at the time, John hadn't known it was evidence. Sherlock had been behaving suspiciously for about a week now and John had just wanted to know what was going on – that was all. His teeth had ground at the thought of him slipping off to play Moriarty's games on his own; especially after the swimming pool incident.

Ah, the swimming pool incident. He could remember it as clearly as the war. It didn't 'haunt' him like the memories of Afghanistan did, but his heart would begin pumping again at the recollection of the fright – mixed with concentrated adrenalin – as he heard Moriarty's high-pitched voice whisper what to say into his ear, knowing there was a bomb strapped to his chest, and if he did anything that he was not told he would have been blown to kingdom come.

He had often wondered what had been running through Sherlock's eyes as he opened up his coat and revealed what was hidden there. He watched his eyes dancing as he swept over him, flickering between him and Moriarty; knowing that any move could be his last. John was sure he'd thought up a plan within minutes of seeing '_Jim_'. John would dare say that Sherlock had only had a flame of fear for him before it was blown out by his own crazy brainwave, but something in the way that Sherlock had tore the bomb off him and thrown it across the room told him that it wasn't so. His breath had been so rapid, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

John had never really thanked him. He didn't think he'd needed to. Sherlock didn't see the need in being grateful, and probably wouldn't have appreciated it if John _had_ thanked him. He thought it better not to waste his breath.

But John Watson was an honest, sincere man, and although he hadn't been able to thank all his comrades in Afghanistan if they shot someone aiming for him – because he never would have known who it was – he knew that he had every opportunity in the world to thank Sherlock.

But he never truly had.

It was things like the swimming pool incident that caused that little voice at the back of his mind to spit, hurtfully, '_That's the only reason you put up with him – you can't keep away from the danger, can you, Doctor Watson? And now you've gone and ruined it; given him up to the police. You won't know what to do with yourself when he's gone, will you, __**Doctor**_?'

John shivered again and pushed it back. He didn't want to believe that that was the reason he stuck around Sherlock for one moment. Sherlock was his flatmate – his friend – maybe even his colleague as Sherlock had called him on numerous occasions.

It had been at least an hour after Lestrade had texted John, informing him briefly that Sherlock was on his way home – home to him. He would have his friend back.

But after about half an hour John's bleary happiness had faded to worry, and then the thoughts started up about Sherlock being angry and hating him. He became agitated then, settling in the armchair, gripping the armrests firmly to keep him rooted to reality as he battled with himself. He hadn't even realised when forty-five minutes passed and Sherlock still wasn't back.

Surely he would have gotten a taxi, rather than walking. Even if he hadn't had the money he would have slumped upstairs and asked John to lend him some – some he knew he would never pay back. But John wouldn't have cared at that moment, he had just wanted Sherlock back, to know what they had asked him, how they had treated him, if he was alright...

Mrs Hudson had been worried when Sherlock didn't return home with John last night. John had just said that he was working on a case and would be back in the morning. He didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. And besides, he knew Sherlock would prefer her not to know. And he also decided, himself, that the less she knew about Sherlock being accused of murder – the better. Poor Mrs Hudson.

John grew tired of sitting agitatedly on his chair, so he stood up and began pacing. Not his best idea, he knew, but whenever his hand starts trembling he knows he has to do something – anything – to preoccupy his mind.

But when Sherlock was gone the shaking would always start up again.

He snatched up his phone from the coffee table, sighing in annoyance as he did so, and went straight to Sherlock's number in his contact list. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he was worried about him. Sure, Sherlock could handle himself; he knew that.

But something was different this time...

He pressed the green button and waited.

One ring. Two rings. Three – four. Answering machine.

The Doctor growled under his breath and tried again, unable to handle his own irritation. But the same thing happened. And the same thing happened three times after that. Five missed calls – John was worried now. Really worried. Sherlock always answered his phone; no matter where he was or who he was with. All about the work, he is.

But even after five rings? Something was wrong.

So he decided to call Lestrade instead. John's aggravation only lifted when he heard the DI's voice on the other end of the phone.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Lestrade – did you send Sherlock home yet?" The words had burst from John's lips before he'd even had chance to think about them. The worried tone was obvious, and he was sure that even over the phone Lestrade would suspect something.

"Yeah," The DI said, carefully, "I text you about an hours ago, didn't you get my message?"

"Yeah, I got it," John replied, breathing heavily from his nose and shuffling unsurely from one foot to the other on the spot, "But Sherlock hasn't come back yet."

There was a pause, in which John knew Lestrade's eyebrows would have furrowed, "Oh. Well, um... He's a big boy, Dr Watson, he can look after himself. If he isn't back in another few hours let us know and we'll go out looking for him."

John shook his head at the DI's words, knowing that he couldn't see him, and just answered, through gritted teeth, "Okay, fine. Thanks." He pressed the red button on his phone and ended the call. "For _nothing_!"

John didn't even think twice before snatching up his coat and dashing out the door.

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_**A/N: Yeah, a short one again. But I hand-wrote the next chapter earlier today (before I'd even finished this one, actually) so I hope it will make up for this one.**_

_**Where is Sherlock?**_

_**Reviews are love!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	11. Ten

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.**

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"You disobedient _wrench_!" The cloaked figure screamed, raising his hands and striking the 'wrench' before him. The pale, skeletal-thin woman dropped to the floor effortlessly, not even raising her hands to defend herself or cushion her fall. At the same moment, another pale woman ran out of the shadows.

"Sister!" She exclaimed, rushing to the fallen woman's aid. The woman on the floor seemed unharmed and sat up just as quickly as she fell. Her 'sister' swept over her with her eyes and then – satisfied that she was perfectly fine; if not a little shocked – turned on the man sneering at them. His hand still hovered unsurely, as if he was considering striking the other woman, aswell, but this didn't concern the livid 'sister'.

"She only did what you asked!" She screamed, her body shaking with anger. Her small fists were balled up firmly at her sides, her extremely bony knuckles whitening her already-milky skin. But her eyes were glaring daggers at the man infront of her, and he chuckled lowly in his throat, only to irritate the woman further.

The woman on the floor stayed perfectly still, sitting in a position that suggested she was preparing to scuttle away at any moment. There was an eerie silence around them, in which only the sounds of dripping filthy water could be heard.

But then the man spoke.

His voice was rich, as if it was wrapped in velvet, and deep – deep enough for the standing woman to turn to jelly at his feet. But she stood her ground for her 'sister' and ignored her weak knees.

"Even in rage you still stay as pale as a sheet." A small smirk was playing on his thin lips as he spoke, and under scrutinising eyes the woman he was addressing felt something familiar to embarrassment, and tried her hardest to summon up a blush. She knew it was all in vain; she wouldn't gain colour in her skin _at all_ until she... Well...

Her stomach growled at the thought, and she felt her eyes moisten. He noticed, of course, but continued with what he was saying.

"Whereas your sister," He breezed past the standing woman and addressed the one cowering away on the floor. His large coat fanned out behind him, causing scents of delight to float into the famished woman's nostrils. She tensed, using all the strength she could not to pounce on him.

He stood intimidatingly tall over the ghostly pale woman, his face cast entirely in shadow so she could not see his expression. Her eyes flickered over to her 'sister' for just a split-second and then back to him. The other woman seemed paralysed on the spot, her back to her and her hands still balled up by her sides.

A tremor of short-lived fear ran through her as he slowly began to lean down towards her, but it was phased out by a spark of recollection in her body, and a familiar urge re-introduced itself. As he crouched down infront of her, she levered herself slowly towards him until they were only inches apart. His face was still in shadow – until he closed the gap between them until their noses touched.

She gasped as his face came into view – just like she had _that_ night. Except this time, instead of looking into crimson red eyes, they were blue. A cold, piercing shade of blue. And then a realisation coursed through her, all the way to her unbeating heart. She was sure that – if it was still beating – it would have broken.

Because he didn't want her anymore. He didn't _need_ her anymore. Not like he had that night – that little blurry hope of him needing a satisfaction just as much as her was gone. Now his eyes told her nothing, apart from the fact that she was _unwanted_. They were flat, dead. Cold.

And then her lust simmered away, along with the fire that had started to ember inside her chest. The lust was replaced with fear. Fear as to what he wanted with her now. Because if he didn't want her – why did he need her here?

But he was unwavered by the mixture of her expressions, which were changing so rapidly it was like she was a cartoon. He just reached out a large, steady hand – the same hand he had struck her with – and touched the cheek he had struck with a single long, slender finger.

"Your sister can flush even after only one feed."

And at that, he stood up and swooped back over to the standing woman, leaving the other to gently touch her cheek; which was now strikingly red against the rest of her skin.

Even though he was right in her face, much like he had to the other 'sister', the other woman stared right past him, as stiff as death. His face broke out into a disfiguring sneer.

After a dramatic pause, during which he scanned her face with his eyes, he murmured, disgustedly, "And look at _you_. The elder sister – you should be setting an example," He tutted, shaking his head mockingly, before lowering his voice to a whisper, "But even in anger your eyes are just a mucky brown. You disgust me."

And at that, he turned on his heel and walked back out into the shadows, while the other woman crumpled, falling into the arms of her younger 'sister'.

* * *

Sherlock had been reported as 'missing' for over a month.

John was going insane, sitting up in the empty apartment every day on his laptop, staring at the homepage of Sherlock's website, preying for something to pop up. An apology (although that was unlikely), a report on a case, or even a sarcastic comment – _anything_ to give him news as to where Sherlock was.

But it remained untouched for the same amount of time Sherlock was missing.

Even Mrs Hudson was worried about him. Every day she would lightly tap on their door and enter with a slight '_coo-ee_', only to see John sat in his pyjamas on the kitchen table – the laptop pushed directly under his nose.

Many times she had tried to coax him away from the apartment, suggesting going to see Sarah or going down to the shops – and far too many times had he snapped at her for making such suggestions. He'd always feel guilty about it afterwards, especially because she was being so understanding about his living situation. He was beginning to slip into debt about the rent, but Mrs Hudson would just shrug it off like it was nothing and pat him gently on the shoulder.

"That's alright, pet," She would say, softly, "He'll be back soon." And then she would leave, and John would have go bite his tongue to hold back the tears threatening to spill over.

He hadn't cried yet. And he was determined not to. The truth of it was, all the emotion had just built up inside him for years and now was the time it chose to come out. All the emotion from the army, all those nights he'd woken up screaming and hadn't cried, even though he had longed to. All those times he just felt so frustrated he'd wanted to smash up something, but composed himself. All those times he should have let it out and he didn't – now he was paying for it.

He was frightened. Really frightened. He was frightened for Sherlock, about where he was, who he was with or what he was doing. He was frightened that he may never come home...

He had disappeared just as quickly as those women had (after they re-animated, of course). The only traces of him was the police security cameras inside and outside the building. They show him leaving the police station, walking out into the street and then...

Nothing. Nothing else has been seen of him since then. Where on _Earth_ could he possibly be? Could all of them be?

He worried, frequently, that perhaps wherever those dead women went – Sherlock might have went there, too. Wherever that may be. Whether it was back to the killer or something as mediocre as an abandoned warehouse.

He shook his head, staring blankly at the computer screen once more.

No. Lestrade had already searched every likely place Sherlock would be. Even Mycroft had gotten involved, sending out black Mercedes all over the place until the whole of London was swarming with them. He was on the news, in the newspapers, on posters – you name it; Sherlock's face was on it.

Not a very flattering picture, but it was the only one he would sit still for. Seeing as he didn't have a driver's licence _or_ a passport, John didn't know why he'd decided to go into the photo booth and get passport photos taken, but that one strip of four was the only recent, decent picture John could find of Sherlock. So one of the four it was.

But John had known that after a few weeks; if Mycroft's people couldn't find him then no one could.

And now a month had passed – almost two. He was nowhere to be seen, and no one had heard as much as a whisper.

John was even beginning to grow so desperate he felt like messaging Moriarty. Sherlock would have his email address, he was sure. It was a long shot, of course, and they hadn't heard from him since the swimming pool incident. But he hadn't died – they knew that. But somehow John knew that if Moriarty was involved in this he would have contacted him already. So who was Sherlock with if it wasn't _dear old Jim_?

John didn't like to think of it.

Sarah had stopped calling him after the first few weeks. He knew exactly why, of course, and he supposed he was fired from his job. Not that it mattered; he was above all that stupid GP stuff, anyway. But he was a modest man, and he didn't like to show it. He supposed Sarah had had enough of his snappy mood swings when he called her '_stupid_', '_useless_' and told her to keep her big nose out of things that didn't concern her.

He didn't blame her, of course. She was only trying to help.

Molly had quit her job. But John couldn't say he hadn't seen it coming. If he was in her shoes he would have quit a long time ago. But she was determined to push through, even after two of her bodies got up and left. But once the third one came in, she had decided she had had enough and handed in her resignation. Lestrade had let her go without another word – nothing he said could have persuaded her otherwise.

Shame; she was good at her job.

But once the third body (Abigail Thomas; third victim of '_The Dark Prowler_' – as the papers called the murderer) got up the same way as the others, half the police station quit, aswell. In fact, the rate of people moving _out _of London was higher than the rate of people moving _in_, which was very surprising.

The media were having a feeding frenzy about all this, of course: '_The Dark Prowler Strikes Again – He Takes down the Police's Number One Accomplice._' '_Sherlock Holmes "Consulting Detective" MISSING – Is this the Work of the Infamous Dark Prowler_?' '_London's Vampire Prowler Free to Roam as Detective Goes Missing_.' The headlines just got worse and worse; creating more and more lies as they went along.

John sighed, feeling his human requirements kick in, and slowly dragged himself away from the table and up the stairs.

But as he did so, he missed something vital in his search for Sherlock. As the telly kept playing in the background, always on BBC1 so he could hear the news, the news reporter stated, matter-of-factly, "_It has been reported today that new footage of missing Detective Sherlock Holmes has been recorded. The footage shows him walking into a local newsagent and buying a notebook in central London this morning._"

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_**A/N: You won't hear about this notebook any more and I'll just stick with John and the police enquiry. I am planning on doing a sequel entitled, 'The Diary of a Prowler' which is just Sherlock and his diary entries into the notebook he purchased, about where he is etc. All will be revealed soon, don't worry!**_

_**Reviews are love! What did you think of this chapter?**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	12. Eleven

_On the first page, of our story,  
The future seemed so bright.  
Then this thing turned out, so evil,  
I don't know why I'm still surprised.  
Even angels have their wicked schemes,  
And you take that to new extremes.  
But you'll always be my hero,  
Even though you've lost your mind._

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from "**_**Love the Way You Lie Pt. 2**_**" by **_**Rihanna **_**ft**_** Eminem**_**.**

_**A/N: Hey! Um, I just wanted to give a shout out to stacyharris for reviewing and for giving me inspiration for an idea. I know I suggested it, but I wasn't actually going to do it unless someone said they would like to see me do it, so... thank you for that! :) It won't be very long, I'm afraid, just enough to keep the story spicy! :D I hope you like it!**_

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Two months. Two months had passed since Sherlock had gone missing. And it had been two months after that one single ray of hope passed through 221B's windows and hit John smack in the face – because they had caught him on CCTV; in a corner shop; buying a _notebook_. It was strange, but it was a start.

Three months. Three months passed since Sherlock had gone missing. One month had passed since his last sighting in central London – only a fifteen minute walk from their flat. So where was he and what was he doing? John knew he was safe, thankfully – but he still wondered. He wondered about lots of things, some things too damaging to mention. Sherlock wouldn't be capable of that sort of thing, anyway...

It had been three months since he had gone missing – June to September. He had gone missing on June 25th, and it was now September 17th. Eight-three days had passed since his disappearance. That's about twelve weeks. That's three months, practically.

Two killings a week. The killings still went on – and after each killing, the corpse managed to walk away. Every single time. No matter what condition they were put in; no matter how many rooms, doors, or even guards, blocked their way between them and the exit doors – they would find a way out. And each and every time, they would succeed. And each and every time they would vanish as if into thin air.

Twelve weeks – two killings a week. That's twenty-four killings in the space of three months. _Twenty-four._

Only once had the killer broken his pattern – and that was when Sherlock was in the observation cell. That had been the only time he had stopped his two-day gap between victims and killed two in a row. The _only_ time.

The press had suggested many theories, some of them actually made sense. Other didn't – like perhaps the murderer wanted to give Sherlock an alibi to prove to police he wasn't the murderer, and therefore he would get all the credit; not Sherlock. That was unlikely. For that to be possible, the killer would have had to have known Sherlock, and if Sherlock knew him, he would have caught him by now. Even if it was Moriarty Sherlock would have known.

But Moriarty hasn't been in touch for seven months.

Until that faithful day in September.

* * *

John had woken up in his usual way that day of September. He was hit hard in the face by a harsh ray of sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. It was about midday.

He wasn't surprised he'd slept late. He often did, considering that into the late night he would sit on the laptop staring at Sherlock's website.

But he couldn't help but groan as he groggily rubbed his eyes and sat up, moving his head out of the harsh ray of sun. It took him a moment, but then everything flooded back in one huge tidal wave of memory. About the killings, about the re-animated corpses, about the evidence he gave the police – about Sherlock.

And then he groaned again, burying his blotchy, unshaven face into his hands, blocking out all daylight around him. His brain hammered against the inside of his skull, and his eyelids began their usual stinging sensation. He squeezed them tight, ensuring that no liquid would escape; just like he did every morning when that wave of despair hits.

But he hadn't cried yet. And he wasn't about to.

He hadn't had any nightmares about the army since Sherlock went missing. They had just stopped – and for the first few nights his sleep had been dreamless; until about a week after Sherlock's disappearance, when the nightmares kicked in again... except they weren't about the army, anymore.

Compared to these new nightmares – he would gladly re-live the army nightmares; over and over. As long as these new nightmares were kept at bay.

_He knew this place. He knew it __**very**__ well. __**Too **__well. And yet he'd only set foot in their once – by force, at gunpoint, alone... frightened, exhilarated..._

_It had only taken Sherlock three hours to get there. __**Only**__. God. He sat there for far too long, sweating in his large coat (oh, which had a __**bomb**__ attached to it, by the way) as he watched the most dangerous criminal in London stand calmly infront of him, his cruel smirk playing on his soft features._

_John hated the sound of his voice. That high-pitched, annoying, shrill, __**intriguing**__ voice of his that he used to spill out plans and confessions – all before that little red dot hovering above your head killed you._

_He hadn't listened, of course. He hadn't listened as he told him all about how he'd known Sherlock would contact him sooner or later, about what his plan was; to __**burn the heart**__ out of Sherlock – whatever that meant. He didn't listen as he sat there and told John about his army days, about things John wouldn't even admit to himself, about his tremor in his left hand, just like Mycroft had, and especially about his family situation. He didn't listen as he told him the exact things Sherlock had told him the first say they'd met – about his sister, Harry, and about her drinking. He hadn't listened, just scanned the room frantically for a way out._

_But there wasn't one. And he knew that._

_He couldn't even stand up to take a blow at Moriarty, who was only standing a few feet away from him, picking invisible lint off his expensive suit, still wearing that smug smirk as he never took his eyes from him, reading every aspect and detail about his life like Sherlock did – only twisting the words and making his whole life into something it wasn't._

_And then he cackled. He cackled so loudly it hurt John's ears. The cackle was of such a high decibel – so high-pitched that his ears began to bleed, and all other sound was drowned out as he felt the warm liquid trickle down his neck._

_Then, a tremor of terror ran through him, as Moriarty's cackling was stopped dead, and his eyes glazed over – turning them from their usual murky green to a striking shade of red._

_His now crimson eyes never left the drop of blood running down John's neck until it reached the hood of the coat and soaked into the fabric, still leaving a dark red mark trailing right down John's jugular. He could feel Moriarty's apprehension as he slowly stepped forward, parting his lips to reveal two glistening fangs where his canines should be._

_John struggled against the chair to which he was bound, tightly – too tightly – and tried desperately to get away. But no matter how much he struggled, no matter how loose the bonds got, they still held him there; kept him prisoner under The Night Prowler's fixated stare as he moved in to devour his prey. John gulped down a foul-tasting lump rising in his throat as he felt Moriarty's hands place firmly on his arms, rooting him even more to the chair, and pressed down as he leaned forward until his nose hovered above John's neck._

_John continued to struggle under the man's hold, but stopped dead when he felt a fiery-hot hand press against his mouth. It scorched his lips, and he screamed out in pain, biting the feverish skin burning him, to no avail. The hand remained, applying more and more pressure until the back of John's head collided with the back of the chair._

_Then, he felt it. He felt the fangs sink into his flesh – into his artery – and screamed out in pain as they tore at every nerve ending, every vein, every part of skin they could find as the vampire feasted on him._

_The pain was excruciating._

_His heart hammered against his chest harder than it had ever done before as it desperately tried to replace all the lost blood. But John, in his medical experience, knew that he would be dead within just one minute. One minute, twenty-five seconds._

_One minute, twenty four seconds._

_One minute, twenty three seconds._

_He felt all the red-hot liquid run down his chest and into his shirt, seeping in all the blood – so much so that it was completely covered in bright crimson spots of red within less than thirty seconds._

_One minute, nineteen seconds._

_One minute, eighteen seconds._

_After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the fangs tear away from his flesh and a rush of cold air hit the gaping holes in his skin. He screamed even louder into his killer's shoulder at this new sharp experience of pain as the stinging sensation coursed through him, burning even worse than before._

_But his scream was cut short when he saw his murderer's face appeared directly infront of his._

_But it wasn't Moriarty. It was Sherlock._

_It was __**Sherlock **__who had just sunk his fangs into John's neck. It was __**Sherlock**__ who had drank his blood as it freely poured from the wounds he'd made. It was __**Sherlock**__ who had killed all those women. __**Sherlock**__ was The Dark Prowler._

_Moriarty hadn't sent him to his grave – Sherlock had._

_And as more of crimson red blood dripped from the corners of Sherlock's mouth, John let out one last ear-piercing screech of agony as a harsh realisation washed over him._

_Sixty seconds._

_Fifty-nine._

_It had been Moriarty who had sat there and echoed Sherlock's words to him, yes. But it wasn't Moriarty who had sent him to his grave. Moriarty didn't like to get his hands dirty. But he hadn't made Sherlock into The Dark Prowler. Someone else had – someone just as despicable and intelligent._

_But the only reason Moriarty had sat there and told him everything Sherlock had was because there were so similar, him and Sherlock. So much so, that he guessed Moriarty knew more about Sherlock than Sherlock knew about himself. That was it – __**that**__ was the connection. So drawn to each other, so closely connected, like both were moth's looking for a flame when they bumped into the other – realising that who needed a flame when you could play a game like this?_

_Him and Sherlock, forever playing their silly little game. And now John was dying because of it._

_Thirty-one._

_Thirty._

_He saw the edges of his eyesight blur, and he gasped in panic and horror as he realised he was about to die. He was about to die, staring into the bright crimson eyes of his murderer, his creator, his flatmate, his colleague, his __**friend**__..._

_His friend licked the trails of blood from his lips, greedily, unable to conceal the unsatisfied hunger in his face._

_Twenty-two._

_Twenty-one._

_He heard Moriarty's cackle again, only this time it was coming from The Dark Prowler's lips. John ground his teeth together to try and drown out the thudding, pulsing, painful throbbing in his head as the sound burst his eardrums and his brain started thudding in his skull. He continued cackling at John's expense, his pink-tinted fangs gleaming before him; looking so intimidating that a whole new spasm of fear racked through him and he felt his heart speed up even more than humanly possible._

_Fifteen._

_Fourteen._

"_**Wake up**__!" John began screaming, hammering his arms against the arms of the chair. "__**WAKE UP**__!" But he could barely lift his arms; they were so heavy._

_As were his eyelids. All he wanted to do was close them and go to sleep..._

_Sleep..._

_Eleven._

_Ten._

"_**WAKE UP**__! __**WAKE UP**__!" He kept screaming, over and over, even more frantically than before, feeling the life seep out of him as the cackling got louder and louder, deafening him._

_Seven._

_Six._

_And then Doctor Watson looked upon his flatmate once more as a great grin spread across his blood-stained face, the blurred vision now so violent he could only make out colours._

_Three._

_Two._

_Then darkness consumed him._

_But yet Doctor Watson still did not awaken. Even in darkness, he could still feel the scorching pain, he could still hear the deafening cackle and he could still feel his breath being taken as every helpless scream left his lips._

_The darkness was squeezing him – and squeezing him tight. Its grip was so tight he couldn't even scream anymore; he couldn't scream against the pain or against the coldness twirling itself around him in tendrils. It just kept squeezing, squeezing and squeezing until the darkness turned into dizzy swirls as all air was vacuumed from his system and every last drop of blood was drained from his veins._

_Then all he could see was red. Patches of dark red, growing larger and larger and brighter and brighter, until everything was gone apart from this red nothing infront of him._

_And in that redness, in that all-consuming, deafening, painful abyss he stayed, listening to the cackling still bouncing off the walls and into his very soul, waiting for the harsh light of midday to wake him from his prison._

And when this harsh light of midday finally came, he did not allow himself to cry. For even though he could breathe again, although there were no traces of puncture marks on the side of his neck, he could still hear the cackling – still hear that cold, cruel, uncaring cackle bouncing from the fringes of his mind; forced to endure until he woke.

It haunted him even more than the nightmares about the army. Because at least when he dreamt of the army he could wake himself up.

But not this time. Never this time.

And before, he had never done anything except sat on Sherlock's website when he finally opened his eyes to find he could breathe again. Not until that day on September 17th, that is.

Because on that day – September 17th at midday – instead of heading straight to Sherlock's website, he went to Sherlock's emails. His password was already entered, so he just went straight to his contact list.

It didn't take him long to find Moriarty's name.

* * *

_**A/N: Okay, just a taster. :) I know the nightmare scene (hell, this whole CHAPTER) kind of dragged out, but I desperately needed to get a point across about the relationship between Sherlock and Moriarty. Did it work?**_

_**Hmmm. I also need suggestions. Should Moriarty be able to find Sherlock – or will it be a dead end search just like Mycroft's had been? Let me know what you think would keep it interesting!**_

_**Thanks for reading! I know this was a little crappy, but I haven't been very well. :/**_

_**Please review.**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	13. Twelve

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. **

_**A/N: Just before you start reading, I want you to know that when I describe how Sherlock draws John to him with his sociopath-icity, that is what it is like with me because one of my friends is a sociopath. And I know that she is, but she just bends people to her will and manipulates them – including me – in any way she can. But it's sad because I know what I can do about it, I know I can just get up and walk away but I can't. So that is what it must be like for John; also, he has the 'danger' to draw him to Sherlock, also. So it is probably double-difficult.**_

_**

* * *

**_

Fifteen agonising seconds past after John pressed 'send'. And in those fifteen minutes, he felt panic. Panic, yes, because this wasn't just an ordinary man he was emailing – this was Moriarty. This was the man that, the last time he had seen him, had strapped a bomb to his chest and threatened to kill him and Sherlock. This was the man that had strapped bombs so five other victims; one of those a child, and one of those an old woman, and made them his puppets just so he could play a '_game_' with Sherlock.

This definitely wasn't an ordinary man. This was a psychopathic criminal.

John had confirmed that when he heard the cackling echoing in his head.

He also felt worry. He was worried that if Sherlock ever found out, what he would say, what he would do – would he ever forgive him for setting his '_arch enemy_' on him, for 'undermining' him infront of the one person he always longs to impress. Even though Sherlock would never admit that to John, he knew that's what he would be thinking.

Once you live with a sociopath, you start to gradually figure out how their mind works. But the only problem with that is, you know how to adapt yourself around them so it isn't so hard for yourself – but the sociopath being what they are, they always draw you back into the same self-destructive circle. And that's what Sherlock did every time danger arose itself. John would be drawn.

And he loved it.

So when he clicked 'send', he wasn't surprised at all the emotions running through his system. All the worry, anxiety, fear and panic that had risen in him hadn't surprised him at all.

But after those fifteen seconds when he got a reply, he was surprised how much his heart began hammering against his ribs.

Scrambling for the mouse, he clicked frantically on the little yellow envelope and opened Moriarty's email. His heart lurched in his chest as his eyes scanned over every sentence, every word, every letter, every syllable...

_Ah, Johnny-boy. How are you? I knew it was only a matter of time before you contacted me about Sherlock. What has my dear gotten himself into this time? Be sure to tell me all about it later, won't you, John? Meet me at the pool – midnight, like last time? Oh, goodie! It'll be like a little reunion, eh, Doctor? But don't worry, this time Sherlock won't be able to interrupt us..._

– _JM_

John's eyes scanned over the last sentence about four times before his brain really absorbed what Moriarty was implying. Even though there was a definite hint of sexual indication there, John knew that wasn't what he meant. No where near.

He was implying another murder threat. Possibly another bomb.

But John was far too gone to care. He had to find Sherlock – no matter what it cost.

"_This time Sherlock won't be able to interrupt us..."_

_

* * *

_

He could recollect the adrenalin pumping through him again. With every thud of his frantically beating heart he could feel all the anxiety and breathtaking excitement course through his veins, into all his limbs and directly into his brain. A shiver ran down his spine as the swimming baths came into view – and he knew it wasn't the early morning cold, either.

Although, saying that, with every exhale of energized breath a cloud of silver tendrils swarmed around him.

_This is madness_, he told himself, quickening his pace. _You should have told Lestrade what you're doing, just in case anything fishy goes on._ John tutted mentally – he'd never been right about contacting Lestrade before; why was now any different?

_Because this time __**John's**__ life is in danger._

John pushed away the thought immediately, setting his eyes on the quickly approaching swimming pool doors. Only a few metres away was Moriarty.

The energy pulsed through John again, and it managed to stay with him as he pushed the metal doors open and came into a familiar room. The room both he and Sherlock had almost died. And this time, when he shivered, he told himself it _was_ the cold.

The pool was calm, of course, as it had been before. Before he and Sherlock jumped in for cover, that is. But it was covered in numerous bits of rubble that the council still had yet to take away and recover. Various chunks of wall were missing and everything seemed to be layered in a cloud of dust. It made John feel uneasy, being in a place that was now labelled as '_abandoned_'. But he hoped that – God forbid – if anything _was _going to happen to him, the workers would find him in the morning; still alive.

He stood there in the cold room for a moment and wrapped his jacket tighter over his shoulders, looking up onto the roof for any red dots coming his way.

There was none.

No sooner than a second after he called Moriarty's name, that infamous high-pitched voice called out from thin air, bouncing off the chipped tiled walls around him. "Hello again, Johnny-boy."

John looked around quickly, peering through cracks of every window and door for a slight glimpse of Moriarty. He heard none, but jumped a mile when he felt a hand press against his shoulder. Before Moriarty had even had time to squeeze, John had turned and grabbed his wrist, glaring daggers at him through narrowed eyes. But instead of feeling threatened like John had wanted, Moriarty just laughed his annoying, pompous laugh and slowly pulled his arm from John's grip. Stuffing his hands casually into his pockets, he slowly began circling John, only making the ex-Army Doctor even more uncomfortable.

"Don't waste my time Moriarty – are you going to help me find Sherlock or not?" He snapped; anger overcoming him as the man circling him seemed to be less than concerned for the Consulting Detective.

But when John spat at him, he faltered in his steps for just that second – enough for John to realise that he had a slight advantage. There were no snipers; it was just them.

And then John felt more afraid than ever.

"That's up to you – Doctor John Watson," Moriarty replied, stopping infront of John to smirk almost kindly at him. John kept his arms steadily by his sides, as he felt more comfortable that way – especially as Moriarty's hands were in his pockets. Then, Moriarty spun once on the spot in a full turn until he was facing John again, and continued, calmly, "We're all alone; it's just us two here, Johnny-boy. No snipers, no bombs, nothing. I'm not even armed." John's eyes instinctively flickered to his left breast, and noticed that his suit concealed any lumps that a gun would create nicely, so he decided not to believe him.

Moriarty must have noticed, because he tutted comically and rolled his eyes, before opening up his suit jacket and showing John the empty inside pockets, before turning his trouser pockets inside-out.

"See?" He asked, simply, eyebrows raised high up on his head.

John didn't answer, only started with another question, "If you don't know where Sherlock is just tell me now so I can leave." He had tried to make his tone seem dull, bored, monotone; but somehow it came out a little shaky and desperate, not convincing Moriarty at all. In fact, the slightly taller man smirked slightly, before stuffing his hands back into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Of course I know where he is, Doctor Watson." He announced, almost proudly, "I've known where he is for a long time."

John shrugged, callously, when inside his heart was hammering hard against his chest, "Then why didn't you contact the police?"

Moriarty laughed then. And cruelly, too. The very sound caused John's teeth to grind together and his hands to ball up into fists at his sides. He must have noticed, because he managed to calm himself before he continued, "I'm wanted for murder, Doctor Watson. And many of them. If Sherlock Holmes was out the way – I had a higher chance of getting away with them. Why should I tell the police of his whereabouts if it gives me one step up–,"

"So are you saying you admit that Sherlock would catch you?"

That question caught Moriarty of guard. But whether it was just the question itself or the shock of being interrupted that faltered him, but for just a moment his facade dropped and his mouth gaped open and shut like a dying fish.

But then he smirked again. "You want to know where he is, Doctor Watson?" The criminal asked, teeth glistening as he spoke the words effortlessly. John couldn't bring himself to speak, out of fear that his unsteady voice would give him away, so settled for nodding instead. Just once, but Moriarty got the exchange.

Then, Moriarty reached into his pocket.

John's reaction was so fast it was a blur.

Because in that split second that Moriarty opened up his jacket to reach into his inside pocket, John had pulled his gun out from his back pocket and pointed it with a dead-set steady hand straight at Moriarty's head. It happened so fast it even took Moriarty a moment to compose himself.

There was a pause, filled with deafening silence. Those few seconds were probably the longest of John's life.

But Moriarty just chuckled and reached into his pocket anyway, pulling out a thin object and tossing it to the floor at John's feet. John didn't take his eyes off Moriarty.

Through his smirk, he calmly told the Doctor, "There he is, Doctor Watson. I'm sure it won't take you long to realise what is going on here." And at that, he turned to leave. But then he turned back again, scratching his chin, brows furrowed in frustration as if he had forgotten something. "Oh, and _don't_ go to the police. You saw what they did to '_help_' Sherlock last time. Do you know why they put him in an overnight observation cell, Doctor Watson?"

John didn't even move, refusing to even shake his head in response. Moriarty took his stony silence as a 'no' and carried on. "Because they think he is a Vampire."

And at that, he turned on his heel and casually strode away. John never took the gun from the man's retreating form until the door had firmly closed behind him, casting a tinny echo around him.

It only took him a second to dive down and examine the thing at his feet.

It was a picture. A picture of London. To narrow it down further – Baker Street. But it wasn't 221B, it was further down. But not much further. It was just a normal baker's shop; nothing seemed strange about the street itself. But perhaps that was what Moriarty was getting at – the shop? What was wrong with the shop?

Was Sherlock there?

Hmm...

John didn't know, but what he certainly _did_ know was that he wouldn't take advice from the World's most dangerous criminal – of course he would tell Lestrade. Even though it hadn't helped him last time, he still hadn't forgot that Moriarty was a criminal.

Another shiver ran down John's spine as he turned to leave the pool.

_Vampires_. Huh.

* * *

_**A/N: Yeah, sort of a crappy chapter, and I think that's the last we'll see of Moriarty. So yeah! This story is coming to its climax, but I REALLY don't know how it's going to end, so just bear with me. Ideas?**_

_**Thanks for reading! Review?**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	14. Thirteen

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. **

* * *

John had begun to think that he had a sixth sense. A premonition – if you will. Because it seemed that every time Detective Inspector Lestrade would begin walking towards him, a solemn expression on his taught face, John always knew exactly what he was about to say.

And this time was no exception.

The subject, of course, was no exception either; Sherlock.

They had been at that Baker's shop for almost five hours. Five hours that John knew, now, that had been taken out of his time to find Sherlock. Because Sherlock wasn't there. Sherlock had never even set foot in that Baker's shop.

And DI Lestrade was not an unintelligent man. He knew that John knew – John always knew. So instead of letting the words fall from his mouth as he had planned to let them do, he just exhaled deeply and shook his head at the slightly shorter man, and peeled off his gloves hesitantly.

John nodded just once in response, before peering around the Detective and into the crowd of Forensics and photographers swarming around this one little Baker's shop in the middle of Baker Street. He saw Anderson, slacking off as usual, and had the sudden urge to do Lestrade's job and shout at him to get on with what he was being paid to do. But a fat load of good it would do, he knew, because Sherlock wasn't there.

Sherlock is never there.

He let his head hang loose; so much so that his chin touched his chest. His eyes dropped to his feet and he squeezed them tightly shut – no tears were going to fall today. Not here. Not now.

Sensing the man's grief, Lestrade knew that he had no words of comfort for the Army Doctor, so instead, he just silently turned away and back to his team.

In the darkness, beyond all the commotion of chatter, flashing photographers and humming of police cars, John heard one voice amongst all others. "Alright, people, let's finish up, here." Lestrade.

Lestrade had given up. But John never would.

His sense of Army pride kicked in now, and his mind clicked into overload, as he stood up as straight as humanly possible, arms firmly at his sides, and he held his chin up high. Finally opening his eyes, they were immediately drawn to something a few metres away from him.

It wasn't Lestrade. It wasn't Donovan – or Anderson. It wasn't a human, in fact. It wasn't a police vehicle, either, or anything to do with... anything, for that matter. It was just a simple sewer-hatch in the road. A sewer-hatch he hadn't noticed before because a certain DI had just been standing directly on top of it.

John had the biggest urge to dive onto the ground and shield it from any harm, and to scream out into the crowd to fetch him a crowbar.

There was a reason for this strange behaviour. A reason John didn't even know about. But all he knew was – he was going to look under that sewer-hatch tonight. And he _wasn't_ going to tell Lestrade.

* * *

It took John all day to get prepared. Not physically – no, physically he had everything he needed. One crowbar; check. One scarf to cover his airways, borrowed from Mrs Hudson; check. One torch; check. What else did he need? Other than – possibly – a pair of wellingtons? No. He had to get prepared _emotionally_. He had no idea why he was so drawn to this own sewer-hatch in the ground, and it excited him just as much as it confused him. He promised himself, however, not to persuade himself that Sherlock was down there. He didn't know _what _was down there.

He knew for definite it was something to _do_ with Sherlock, but possibly not Sherlock himself. Maybe it was his coat – or a shoe? He wanted _anything_ right now, anything at all.

Well... Anything but a dead body.

But so far – that was all he knew. And the answers to all his questions was in the shape of a metal bar, grasped firmly in his left hand as he walked down the cold, wintery street of London. Baker Street.

His heart was hammering in his chest again, even more so than it had been when he went to meet Moriarty.

Huh. Moriarty – the answer to everyone's problems. Sherlock's '_fan_'. He was even the answer to John's problems; and he knew Sherlock would never admit it if they ever found him, but Sherlock's _hero_, in a sense of the word.

John almost didn't want to admit it either – but at that moment, he was thankful for Moriarty. He was thankful that he had given him the picture of a random Baker's shop. He was thankful of his rivalry with Sherlock; otherwise, would John have known where to go right now? Definitely not. But all in all – he was _thankful _that he was a criminal mastermind.

No sooner than he had stepped out of 221B, John's phone vibrated in his pocket. Faltering slightly to fish it from his jeans, the Doctor quickly opened it up and read the text message. The name staring at him from the screen cried, 'Moriarty'.

_Well done, Johnny boy. Took you long enough. _

–_M._

John could have laughed. Really, he could have. The irony of it all was so superb he was surprised Moriarty hadn't won a criminal Nobel Prize.

Well... come to think of it, maybe he had?

Despite that, John kept moving, his pace quick and confident, faster and faster down the five-minute walk to that Baker's shop he'd visited earlier in the day. Crowbar braced in his hand, he wasn't afraid who saw. He knew no one would see him – it was dark, well past midnight, and for some reason most of the street lights had began to dimmer. There was barely an orange glow around him as he stopped inches away from the sewer-hatch.

Inhaling deeply, he fished into his coat and brought up the scarf he'd borrowed from Mrs Hudson and secured it tightly around his nose and mouth. Even the sewer-workers didn't like the smell of sewer.

As he did this, he could smell the smells of war. The smells of blood, grime, sweat and dirt, all mixed into one stale, horrific smell. The smell of death.

He could smell death.

John pushed this thought into the back of his mind as he knelt down, positioned the crowbar on top of one of the bolts holding the cover to the ground, and forced all his weight down onto it, twisting harshly until he heard a slight click that indicated that the bolt was loosening.

He could have cried with joy. It had all been a shot in the dark, this crowbar stuff – and it had worked. The bolts slowly began loosening one by one, until they were loose enough for him to slip the crowbar into a gap between the road and the cover and lift–

The hatch broke away without effort.

But it took all of John's effort not to gasp at what he saw.

Because instead of seeing a shallow hole with filth and pipes streaming through it – he saw a ladder. And the ladder just faded into darkness. He thanked his common sense for bringing a torch and fished into his coat pocket to bring it out. Clicking it on, he shone the light down the hole.

He saw the dust reflect in the light like tendrils of mist that left his mouth whenever he exhaled. But all he saw at the bottom of the ladder was a stone, tiled ground. And it was relatively old, aswell. So this must have been here for quite some time.

In that moment, John found it strange that he kept wondering why the council hadn't found this hole and covered it up years ago?

Just to reassure himself before he let his mouth break into a triumphant smile, he reached into the same pocket in which his phone was in, and brought out the photograph Moriarty had given him.

Yep. There it was – the sewer-hatch, only just in the frame of the picture.

Clever, _clever _Moriarty; not wanting the police to find out. John was almost impressed.

Hastily putting the picture back, John slid his legs down the hole until his feet found a rail on the ladder. Slowly bringing the rest of his body in, he put the torch between his teeth and carefully led himself down into the darkness below...

Little did he know that in his hastiness to stuff away his photograph, his phone had fell from his pocket and was sitting peacefully on the silent road.

The screen lit up and it began vibrating angrily.

_Sherlock,_ the caller ID said.

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry it took me so long to get this up here, but I have been swamped with school stuff. I hope you still are able to keep up with the storyline. I hope you enjoyed this evil cliffhanger..^^**_

_**Review?**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	15. Fourteen

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. **

* * *

John lowered himself down slowly into the large, black space beneath him, until his feet touched the stone tile. He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, at the reassurance of being firmly on the ground – safe.

Safe enough for now, anyway.

He hesitantly lifted the torch up and shone the stream of light straight infront of him until the light hit a stone wall that looked the same shade of grey as the tiles on the floor. He shuddered a little. It reminded him so much of Afghanistan.

Moving the torch around, all he could see apart from a dead end were the little speckles of dust shining like glitter in the torch-light, and all the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling above him. He was just about to climb back up the ladder and out to safety, when he caught sight of something in the distance.

It was a mirror. Just a mirror. It was just lying on the floor, but it was too far away to be in the same room as him. So there must have been a passage there. John's heart slammed against his ribs just once, reminding him once again of the bruises there.

Literally dragging his heavy feet across the floor, he pushed himself forward until he seemed to pass through the wall and into a new, larger, mustier room. But he knew there must have been some kind of archway separating the two rooms, so – just for reassurance – he shone the torch light around some more. Once again, he found nothing of interest. But he wanted that mirror.

Walking almost confidently now, he silently crept up the few metres to where the mirror was laid on the floor. He shone his torch on it first, to check for cracks or broken shards, but it seemed in perfect condition. It was only when he carefully picked it up that he felt a warm liquid spread across his fingers. Shining the torch onto his hand, he saw the blood running down his wrist into his coat from the handle of the mirror.

His reflexes kicked in, and he dropped the mirror accidently. As he heard the smash, he dived down to do... something. He wasn't sure what he was planning to do... But as he threw himself down he dropped his torch, and the light went out.

He laid in utter darkness for a moment, staying eerily silent in the dungeon-like room. Then he heard it.

Just _it_. A light shuffle in the darkness, a small scrape of a shoe on the stone – a slight hitch of breath as he threw himself up and instinctively pulled the gun from his back pocket.

It all happened in a blur, but somehow he managed to pick up the torch again in all the commotion and shone the light in the direction of the sound. He immediately had the sudden urge to put down his gun. But his instincts told him otherwise.

Because he saw a woman. A young woman – she couldn't have been more than twenty. She reminded him so much of a hospital patient. She was ghostly pale; almost as white as the ankle-length, floaty nightgown she was wearing. She had no shoes on her feet, which were now black from dirt, and her cheekbones were hollowed in so much that John's stomach turned.

She looked so _ill_.

But once he saw past all the matted, mousy-brown hair and past the thinness of her frame it became clear who this woman was – _what _she was.

She was Abigail Thomas – and she was a Vampire.

He wasn't going to shoot her. He truly wasn't. That was, until she lunged for his throat, her eyes a dazzling shade of red, fangs bared in a menacing manner. His finger just flinched – and she was dead.

John didn't have time to revel in all the emotions of what he'd just done. Of course, he'd shot lots of people before – but they were men. And bad men, too. She was just a girl – an innocent girl. She hadn't wanted to become this... No one did... Not even–

Just as Sherlock entered his thoughts again, he heard a voice from behind him. Rich, light, amusing... It was magical.

"Shame, really." It sang. John turned, and his eyes fell upon the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

Her skin wasn't as pale as Abigail's had been (she had fallen dramatically paler now that blood was seeping from the gaping hole John had made in her chest), it actually had a rosy glow to it, and her cheeks were flushed such a red it was as if she was blushing. But there was no mistaking that this woman was still a Vampire – her eyes sent chills down John's spine. Seeing him quiver, she smiled broadly, showing her gleaming fangs. But there was something in that devilish smile that reassured John. It just _reassured _him. Of _what_;he didn't know. But he had the biggest urge to lower his gun...

"We wanted you to be her first meal."

Somehow, the magic in her voice faded away, and John's brain clicked back into place. His grip became firm again on his gun. She made no attempt to move towards him.

John swallowed the hard, hairy lump in his throat before speaking. "Hello, Jessica."

Jessica Partridge smiled broader than before, and now John could see a definite pink tinge to the threatening fangs resting on her bottom lip. Blood-stains, obviously. But even her gums looked redder than they should. John sighed. _Bleeding gums_.

"You look healthier than the last time I saw you," John said, his voice steady, firm – brave. He thanked God for his Military training. If a Vampire heard a quiver in his voice he would surely be made mincemeat of.

Jessica laughed now, throwing her head back comically and almost cackling. Upon seeing her now, John was sure she'd lost her mind. Well... he didn't doubt that for one minute.

Calming herself, Jessica replied, politely, "Well, I'm sure that's true, Doctor Watson, considering the last time you saw me I was a corpse lying on a metal trolley with a bumbling idiot pushing me around." As she spoke, her smile faded, and with each syllable it got more acidic until she was spitting out the words as if they were poison her over-pink tongue.

John almost snapped at her. He almost did. She couldn't stand there and insult Molly – not after she had been scarred so emotionally. And she had the nerve to insult Molly. No.

But he couldn't snap at her – the moment he showed any form of emotion other than calmness the game would be over and he would... he would be a... one of _them_.

So instead of playing to her little game, he just asked, simply, "How do you know my name?"

Her smile returned and her fangs seemed to gleam an impossible white. There was a dramatic pause before she answered him. "He speaks of you often."

John was sure she'd heard his heart thud again in his chest. He ignored it.

His voice couldn't remain steady as he asked, "_He_?"

Jessica laughed again, but this time it sounded kinder – not as cruel and witch-like. "Yes, '_he_'. The friend you came to find, I presume. My master?" John's knees felt weak. Her _master_?

"Yes..." She mumbled, her voice barely audible, "...I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but your friend doesn't wish to see you. In fact he gave me a message to give to you."

And at that, her mouth opened wide and she lunged for his throat. His hand wasn't fast enough on the trigger this time, and her hand slapped his away so fast the bullet just fired into the darkness. He heard it crunch into the wall just as she leapt on him and pinned him to the cold stone floor. Upon the impact, the back of his head ricocheted off the tile and the world went dark as his grip on his torch loosened and it rolled away somewhere into the large, empty room.

He felt her cold, bony hands at his face, pinning him down further and to stop him struggling. He heard her inhale as her nose brushed his jugular and he struggled even harder. But it was growing difficult under her impossibly strong hold and the whole room seemed to be spinning – a spinning darkness. He was sure his vision had began to blur, but it all happened too fast as he felt his wrist being forced up from behind his back where it was pinned.

It was the same hand the blood from the mirror had trickled down earlier, and he felt a soft, warm tongue caress his wrist – directly above the surface of his veins. He shuddered.

He heard her cackle in the darkness, and he screamed out for help.

Just as he felt a sharp shooting pain through his wrist and up to his arm, all weight was released and her cackling turned to a yelp until it was silenced by a large crash.

John had barely enough time to recover from his shock when he heard an oh-too familiar voice.

"John; are you alright?"

_Sherlock._

* * *

_**A/N: Yay! Sherlock's back! Woohoo! But is he all that he seems? ;) Only future chapters will tell...**_

_**So, um... thanks to all the people that put me on story alert or author alert, but please, PLEASE review! Your reviews mean so much to me, and they help me improve so much. So, thanks for those that do.**_

_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	16. Fifteen

_**Come feed the rain;  
'Cause I'm thirsty for your love, dancing underneath the skies of lust.  
Yeah, feed the rain;  
'Cause without your love my life, ain't nothing but this carnival of rust.**_

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from '**_**Carnival of Rust**_**' by Poets of the Fall©.**

* * *

John looked up and saw a large, thin hand hovering above his head, urging him to take it so he could help him up. Even in the consuming darkness, John could tell just how white the skin was – almost luminous. But it didn't occur to him _why_ when he followed from the hand and up the arm until he came to the face of his 'saviour'.

_Sherlock_. It was Sherlock.

John could have cried with joy. He really could have. His friend was back! After so many months – too many months – he had his friend back. Finally... he had come back to him.

Seemingly oblivious to the bloodthirsty woman recovering from her blow only a few metres away, John jumped up without taking his friend's hand and grinned ecstatically in the darkness.

"Sherlock!" he called, the glee emblazoned in his voice like a roaring lion emblazoned on a knight's chest. At the exact same moment the first syllable left his lips, a reptilian-like hiss drifted over from the other side of the darkness, and before he could register what was happening, he felt a pair of hands on his chest. With a single push, he went flying back just as much as Jessica had.

He heard Sherlock's voice, and he just furiously yelled one word, "_No_!" followed by an ear-piercing scream.

Raising his hands to his ears, John turned his head away from the deafening sound as best he could – still a bit disorientated from his fall. He caught a glimpse of his torch only a few metres away, still shining dimly. But he did not dare move just yet, not while frantic shuffling and gasps came from where Sherlock and Jessica were... well, whatever they were doing.

Focussing on his dim, orange torchlight, the only sound that could be heard was John's heartbeat drumming in his ears, which he had now freed from imprisonment of his hands. Now the silence was deafening.

After what seemed like an age, Sherlock finally spoke again. "...John?"

John needed no further prompt. He leapt up again; feeling helpless lying on the floor, and dived for his torch. Shining it up so he could see his friend's face, he immediately wished he hasn't – because his memory seemed much kinder on the eye.

For Sherlock's skin was such a pale white he looked like a porcelain doll. But even as John stood there, gawking in horror at Sherlock's appearance, his skin seemed to blossom in patches of colour; it was almost like little buds were etched into his skin, and they were now opening up and revealing their colour. Because his cheeks became a flushed red and his skin grew pink.

His high cheekbones seemed higher than usual, as his cheeks held a grotesque shadow. But not by much. John hoped it was a trick of the light...

But his eyes. His eyes couldn't have been a trick of the light.

Because he could swear on all the dead soldiers in the world that he saw Sherlock's eyes glisten a dazzling shade of red before they cooled to their original ice-blue.

So as he stared, and watched his face colour darken, Sherlock tentatively stepped forward, just once, his arm reached out gently as if to catch John if he was to fall. Which John supposed was possible, because he still felt dizzy from his fall, and the darkness of the whole situation was driving him insane.

_He hated the dark_.

"John..." Sherlock said, again, quietly, his eyes flickering from John's face and to the torch in his hand, "...John, don't be afraid."

John began shaking his head. Just shaking his head. And he kept shaking it, until his brain was able to form some words. "Sherlock..." was all he said. But once he saw his flatmate relax, something clicked into place and he dived across the room for his gun. Groping around in the darkness, he felt several cobwebs before he felt the reassuring metal of his gun. Holding it up immediately, he pointed it with shaking fingers in his friend's direction.

Sherlock began staring at the gun in John's shaking hands, more intrigued as to why John's hands were shaking as to why he was holding it up to him.

He voiced this aloud. "John, you're–,"

"Stay back." John snapped, cutting the Consulting Detective off. His voice was shaking just as much as his hands were, but he completely ignored it, and kept staring at the Detective's mouth for the slightest hint of fangs. Because the Doctor had let himself go, there... He had forgotten that this man may not be his friend anymore – he may have been... something different. Something... _evil_. "S-stay where you are."

Sherlock's face was a mask of confusion and pain. "John..."

John's heart bled. It really did. He wanted nothing more than to hold his friend in his arms and take him home to Mrs Hudson where he was safe – take him away from this horrible place, with these monsters who called him '_master_'.

_Oh, God_.

Without thinking, John shone his torchlight down past Sherlock's legs and into the corner where Jessica had collided with the wall when Sherlock had threw her off him, and had to hold back the vomit rising in his throat – along with the tears threatening, once more, to spew over.

Because Jessica wasn't Jessica anymore.

He barely recognised her. Because she was – in one word – _mutilated_.

As a doctor, John knew exactly the cause of death; significant blood loss. And he knew, as the light of the torch smoothed over the two puncture wounds in her neck, that no more blood would seep from her limp and lifeless body as it slumped effortlessly against the cold stone wall; he also knew that any blood that was soaked into her white nightgown wasn't _her_ blood to spill, anyway. That one fact comforted him somehow. That she had _deserved _to die – she was a monster. But as these particular thoughts entered his mind, his eyes flickered back to Sherlock who was stood motionlessly silent, eyeing John with concerned eyes. _Red_ eyes.

John looked away into the darkness, not wanting to look into the dead eyes of Jessica or the blood-filled eyes of Sherlock, but he could still feel them burning into his skin, scorching his very soul.

He exhaled lightly; shakily. That must have been what it was like for a... He forced himself to think the word. But he hadn't meant for it to leave his lips.

He only realised he had actually said it, however quietly it may have been, until he heard Sherlock's voice again, "Yes, John. I'm a Vampire."

The hard, foul-tasting lump rose in John's throat and he forced it back down, only for it to knock off his ribcage and start up his heart again; beating harder and faster than it ever had before.

After what seemed like an age, Sherlock took a step back and John's hand gripped tighter against his gun. He felt immediately guilty, but he knew that Sherlock might not have been... well, _Sherlock_ anymore. The taller man peered round the arch separating two rooms and into darkness. John waited in anticipation until Sherlock suddenly spoke up, harshly, making John jump violently. Sherlock faltered in a moment, gaze fixated on the shaking gun in John's hand, but then shook his head to dismiss it. Taking another step closer to John, John stepped back, and Sherlock lowered his voice dramatically to the terrified man. "John, listen to me. There are twenty-three vampires down here. If even _one_ of them catches a whiff of you, you are most certainly dead. Now, turn around and go home."

John stepped back again, his voice shaking when he whispered hesitantly, "What about you?"

The simple question had many underlying questions to it, but Sherlock decided just to answer one of them. "I can't return to the surface. Just get yourself out, _now_."

At that, Sherlock closed the space between him and John, gently pushed the gun away from him, spun John round by his shoulders and began quickly marching him into darkness. Panicking, the shorter man raised his torch directly in front of him and saw the ladder that was quickly approaching. Shining the torch-light up, it quickly became clear that there was a problem.

"Sherlock? _Sherlock_!" John snapped, his confidence gaining back up with him. Sherlock stopped ushering him forward and looked up into the direction of John's gaze. He felt his muscles tense up with fear.

_The cover was closed_.

Thinking quickly, Sherlock spun John back round so they were face to face. John made sure not to shine the torch onto his face. At least that way he could pretend that he didn't have red eyes or blood trailing down his chin. "John," Sherlock hissed, "You have your phone, don't you? You can call someone."

John's spirits lifted and he began groping around his coat and jean pockets. His spirits died again, along with that last glimmer of hope that had dared show up. _His phone was gone_. Where was it?

Sherlock must have sensed his friend's panic as he watched him search his pockets frantically – check and then double check. His instincts kicked in when he heard a shuffle in the distance.

It was such a small sound, he was sure John had been completely oblivious. But after three months of attuning his hearing to know when a Vampire was approaching, he heard it way before John could have even registered it. Acting quickly, he made a barrier between John and the room by placing himself infront of him; protecting him. John seemed a little confused at first, but got the idea when he lifted his torch and almost immediately Sherlock pushed it back down to the floor.

John listened for a moment, and all he could hear was his own shallow breathing.

Until a small shuffle echoed around them.

He turned the torch off so they were pooled in complete darkness, but the click the button made caused Sherlock to tense, and within one split second, John was pushed to the ground and an onslaught of screaming was heard – by not just one person; but lots. Lots of people.

_Lots of Vampires_.

John drew breath to scream, backing away as closest to the wall as possible, when he felt a warm body on his, arching over him, consuming his world in complete black.

Before he had chance to register exactly who it was – friend or foe – there was a large bang and the tunnels around them exploded.

* * *

_**A/N: Urgh. I didn't want to do another explosion. But, it had to be done. I'm no good at action scenes, as you can probably tell. So, yeah.. I hope you enjoyed, anyway.**_

_**Review please!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	17. Sixteen

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. **

* * *

When John opened his eyes again, he didn't see the consuming, musty, black darkness of the underground tunnels like he had expected. But he saw white; just white. It was a blinding white, and he had to blink rapidly until his eyes got used to it. And even then it took him a moment to realise what it was.

It was a ceiling. He was laid on his back.

When he lifted his head to study his surroundings, he found that every limb ached. Everywhere on his body ached all over. Groaning, he squeezed his eyes shut to stifle the pain. When he opened them again, it became all too clear that he was in a hospital.

He sighed in relief. A _hospital_. Yes – finally something familiar.

No, wait. He suddenly realised; if he was in a hospital then something must be wrong with him...

And then he remembered.

But of all the things he could have said, the one word that left his lips was the last one anyone would have ever expected.

"Sherlock," he breathed, before repeating it, his voice getting louder and louder as he dragged himself from the bed and over to the curtain. Pulling it away, he yelled Sherlock's name once more, clutching onto his side where he felt a soft bump. A bandage. Brilliant.

He shouted his friend's name again, staggering across the beds occupied with startled patients, gawking in disbelief, until one finally called for a doctor. A nurse ran in, saw John immediately, and took him by his shoulders, gently pushing him backwards, shouting for someone to help her.

Two other members of staff hurried in and helped her usher John back to his bed, all the while he continued to struggle and call out, just shouting Sherlock's name – drowning out any reassuring comments from the bumbling staff. But he almost choked on his own words when he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the doorway.

Dressed in his usual suit, trench coat, scarf and gloves, Sherlock stood in the doorway of the ward, just looking in on John, calmly.

He looked... normal. He looked perfectly normal. Not too pale, not too flushed, not too thin, not covered in blood...

A tremor of fear ran down John's spine as he thought that maybe he'd made it all up. Maybe Sherlock hadn't gone missing at all – maybe no women had been murdered in the first place and the Dark Prowler didn't exist. Maybe he had just bumped his head and imaged in the whole thing in his sleep?

You'd think he would be relieved; but he was anything but.

So many questions he needed answering and no time to answer them in, because at that single second John thought about calling out Sherlock's name in panic, Sherlock's mouth opened into a small, shaky smile and John saw the answer to every little thing rattling around in his bruised head.

Fangs.

John sighed in relief, and relaxed against the hold of the doctors and nurses bombarding him, just for that second so they could push him back onto his bed.

But when John looked back Sherlock was gone.

* * *

It turned out that John had been in the hospital for sixteen days in a comatose state before he had woken up. And he had, in fact, been trapped beneath the rubble of the underground tunnels for two days before he was found – unconscious and barely breathing.

They never mentioned Sherlock. They never mentioned him once – not when they were telling him about the rubble, the bomb, the incident, all the dead bodies they uncovered; of all the victims of the Dark Prowler, finally at peace. They never mentioned Sherlock's body, or Sherlock being found. So what had happened to him? Where had he gone?

He couldn't have just disappeared again. John would absolutely _murder_ him if he had.

But honestly, John couldn't work out _what _Sherlock would do – like always. He just hoped that he would turn up again.

He never did.

So twenty days after that, John was discharged from the hospital. Mrs Hudson had been waiting for him as he turned up in a cab, ironically hobbling about on crutches again for a broken ankle. But other than that he was fine. And his concussion had cleared up, anyway. All he wanted was a nice cup of tea.

But as he stepped out of the cab and was enveloped into Mrs Hudson's welcoming arms, he could already sense something different about 221B. Something had changed while he was away but he couldn't quite put his finger on it...

He hadn't needed to say anything for Mrs Hudson to pick up on what he was thinking – she just looked at him carefully and ushered him inside, mumbling quietly, "He's in the basement apartment, dear. But I wouldn't go in there if I were you..."

John stopped when he got to the foot of the stairs, not wanting to look in the corner of his eye to where the door to the basement apartment was. "Why not?" he asked, firmly but curiously, studying Mrs Hudson carefully.

She looked frailer than usual. And... worried.

Frightened, even.

Without waiting for her answer, John quickly hopped over on his crutches to the door and twisted the handle. It was locked.

Turning in exasperation to his landlady, she looked hesitantly about giving him the key. But when he snapped at her, rudely, she shakily handed it over and walked away into her own apartment. John immediately felt guilty, but he couldn't brood on that at the moment.

Slotting the key into the door, he twisted it clockwise until he heard a satisfying click. Almost immediately after, he pushed it open and began hobbling as quickly as he could down the small staircase until he came through an open doorway and into the middle of a room.

Sherlock was in there.

John's pounding heart slowed dramatically at the sight of his friend back in 221B, and this time he would make sure he didn't leave it again. But then it quickly picked up again when he saw exactly what Sherlock looked like.

His clothes weren't as clean as they had been when he had seen him at the hospital. In fact, they were matted in dark stains that John didn't want to think about. And he could see a dramatic paleness in his skin again, and a thinness about him – even thinner than usual. He was no longer gaunt; this was bordering on skeletal. And his hair, usually so clean and curly, was just dishevelled and tangled – as if he hadn't brushed it in months.

He sat balled up in the middle of the floor, the exact spot they'd found the trainers that Moriarty had planted. His coat fanned out around him, acting as a blanket and some sort of protection. He looked... child-like. Pitiful.

His face was pressed into his arms which were resting onto his knees, so John couldn't see his face. But when he spoke, John was so thankful that his voice hadn't cracked like the rest of him had.

"Get out of here, John."

John stayed silent.

"John." Sherlock repeated, through gritted teeth, his hands visibly balling up into fists, "I said get out." When the army doctor didn't answer once again, the Consulting Detective looked up at him, and didn't seem in the slightest bit surprised – or concerned – for John's injuries. He just pressed further – and more firmly. "John. If you don't leave now, I am going to have to force you."

At this, John folded his arms firmly across his chest. It took an effort, as he had to put all his weight on his undamaged ankle, which put him off balance. Wincing in effort, Sherlock saw him wobble unsteadily and jumped up to his aid just as John toppled over. His broken ankle took some of the weight and John hissed through his teeth as a sharp pain ran through him. And then fear shook him as he felt Sherlock's trembling hands on his shoulders to steady him – and completely lifting him from the floor.

John stared at his flatmate in complete bewilderment and astonishment, as the Consulting Detective just seemed to effortlessly pick John up and settle him calmly onto the floor beside him, mumbling under his breath, "Honestly, John, it's a wonder you weren't killed in Afghanistan, you can't even keep your balance!" as he propped John's ankle up onto a pile of dusty books that had been stuffed in the back of the abandoned, musty fireplace.

And then his mumbling stopped dead and his eyes grew wide in panic, and John could already sense him moving away as his hands retracted from John's ankle as if it had caught on fire. It seemed a huge realisation had just knocked him back – it was the kind of look he got when he had just solved a vital clue in a case. Only this was ten times worse.

It was the look he'd gotten when he saw John at the swimming pool.

Even as Sherlock bolted away from him, cowering back away into the corner of the room and hiding his face in his dirty trench coat, John sighed in relief. _His friend was still in there_.

And he wasn't about to give up on him.

Totally banishing the pain he had previously felt, John pushed himself up with his crutches and forced himself to stand. Once he managed to get himself upright, he hobbled over to Sherlock, who seemed to grow smaller and smaller with each step John took, and stood directly in front of him so his shadow was cast over the pathetic state that was once a solid Consulting Detective.

If any of his 'enemies' could see him now they'd probably spare him death out of pity.

But John found that his voice had come back to him, and that that hard lump in his windpipe had dissolved to nearly nothing, giving him enough air to finally speak.

"Sherlock..." He paused, as the man before him shuddered slightly as he spoke his name, probably disgusted with his own being. John fought the tears – he was glad he'd had many months of practice, "...I want to help you."

"_I don't want your help_!" Sherlock immediately snapped, almost cutting John off. His voice broke slightly near the end, but John knew that he wasn't crying, even though he couldn't see his face that he was stuffing inside his coat.

John lowered himself down carefully, until he was crouching on one-knee beside the curly-haired man, who was quivering away once more. The Doctor reached out, and just touched his flatmates shoulder. Just once – gently.

Sherlock's trembling stopped dead.

John shattered the silence around them into a million pieces when he finally managed to assure him, softly, "Please let me help you."

And that was the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock cry.

* * *

_**A/N: Yeah.. You like? :D  
**_

_**I don't know how this story is going to end, to be honest :P I'm just going with the flow.. Hmm... I think the initial idea is there, I just have to get it onto paper :). I regret to say that in my mind is a character death... But no spoilers.**_

_**Ideas are welcome! Please review!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


	18. Seventeen

_**I want to reconcile the violence in your heart,  
I want to recognise your beauty's not just a mask,  
I want to exorcise the demons from your past,  
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart.**_

**Disclaimer: ****All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline. Song lyrics from '**_**Undisclosed Desires**_**' by Muse©.**

**WARNING: Character death. *ducks* Please don't hate me! :3**

* * *

His tears had been crystal clear – not a slight tinge of colour, much like his skin had been for the first few nights he spent back in the flat with John. After convincing him that asbestos had begun to grow in the flat downstairs, Sherlock had wasted no time in moving out, but it soon became clear to John that living with him was going to be difficult.

But not as difficult as _that day_.

John shuddered inwardly. Just thinking about that day made him feel ill. And he couldn't write about it in his blog because Sherlock was listed as 'dead' now. They'd found his blood at the wreckage they'd pulled John from and assumed that he had been taken away to be – John gulped down the awful foul-tasting lump – eaten by the 'fanged girls' they all found. Dead.

And if they found out Sherlock was alive; they would most certainly recognise that he was, indeed, a Vampire, as John had come to terms with calling him – as much as Sherlock disliked it. He still insisted that Vampires were mythical creatures.

Of course, John couldn't tell his psychiatrist, either, because she would immediately contact the police. But John doubted she could help him anymore, anyway. Nightmares are curable – dealing with a Vampire roommate isn't. And it certainly does things to your head.

Sherlock hadn't been himself the first few days he came back to live with John. He was always trembling and cowering himself away, growing evermore pale and thin each day, and closing up whenever John asked him if he would like anything to eat. Of course, John knew exactly what Sherlock wanted, but he wanted to hear it from his own lips.

And when that day came, John almost vomited.

"John..." Sherlock had whispered, his voice hoarse from the long sleep he had just had, his filthy coat still wrapped around him like a comfort blanket. John had looked up from the kitchen table he was staring intently at, gathering his thoughts, and smiled slightly at his roommate. But even John knew that the smile wasn't in the least reassuring – it never reached his eyes.

"What's up, Sherlock?" John asked, gently, trying to get back to speaking in the most casual of ways, to make Sherlock feel a little more relaxed. It never worked.

Sherlock had bit his lip for a moment before he answered, his eyes dead, "I... need..." He exhaled deeply and completely lowered his voice to a whisper, "...blood."

John could have cried at how frail his friend looked – and was completely glad that he had finally talked about food. At that point, John didn't care _what_ Sherlock wanted to eat – at least he would be eating.

But it came much trickier once John had to _get_ the blood.

At first, he had bought five packets of beef from the butchers – the type with the blood smeared on the inside of the packets clear for everyone to see. Sherlock must have smelt it before John walked in, because he huddled himself in the corner behind the sofa and peered at John from over the armrest.

John understood perfectly – they'd had that conversation the night before.

"You should know, John, that I will be ravenous once I smell the blood." He had informed him, standing tall in the middle of the living room for once instead of cowering in the corner, looking more like his old self than he had ever done before. "And that it is adamant you stay away whilst I... _feed_." Sherlock seemed disgusted by the word. He paused before continuing, and John saw his adam's apple bob significantly up and down in his thin throat. "I don't want to hurt you."

John had agreed – and he was sticking to his word.

So as he set it carefully and slowly down on the kitchen table, he remained perfectly silent and perfectly still until he saw Sherlock's eyes glaze over a murky shade of dark-brown.

At that exact moment, he darted out the way as Sherlock burst from behind the sofa and immediately towards the packet of beef he had set down for him. Tearing at the plastic with over-grown fingernails, it didn't take long for John to hear the sickening slurping noise.

He didn't look back as he set down the shopping bag with the four other packets of blood-soaked beef, and silently made his way up to his room.

When John had heard the light rapping upon his door, he knew instantly who it was. Sitting up on his bed, he uttered a small, "Come in," and watched as Sherlock hesitantly entered the room, looking down at his feet, as he closed the door behind him.

The curtains were closed, so John's room was a little dimmer, though still light thanks to the street lamp outside, but John could see the indefinite change in the colour in Sherlock's face – almost flushed, a healthy pink colour. And he somehow looked a lot less thin, which John was thankful for. He was also glad to see that he had gotten rid of his disgusting trench coat and was now just in his formal shirt and trousers – he didn't even have shoes on. Even his hair seemed to have its curly spring back to it, and it looked a lot shinier than last time John had studied it. He was sure Sherlock would look just like a new man if he got a shower.

But his eyes... they were back their wonderful, sparkling blue.

John remained silent, waiting for Sherlock to speak, secretly crying in joy from the inside. "I am sorry about that, John. But my animal instincts overpowered me."

The Doctor nodded just once, to show he understood, a small smile playing on his features. "That's fine, Sherlock."

The Consulting Detective nodded, mimicking his roommate, before he took a step further into the room and looked his friend directly in the eye for the first time since he entered the room.

"Thank you," was all he said.

* * *

_That day _was probably the worst in John's life.

Worse than the army, worse than the swimming pool with Moriarty – and definitely worse than being trapped in the rubble of underground tunnels with dead Vampire corpses all around you. Although not all of them were dead, and he could hear them hissing and screeching as they smelt the blood seeping through his gashed forehead...

No; this night beat every other awful night in his life.

And not because of what Sherlock had done – oh, no. It was because Sherlock was doing _so well_. He was making so much progress; John saw it clearly, even if the Detective didn't believe it himself. But he _was _– and he was getting so much closer to the man Sherlock Holmes used to be; John's best friend. John was just looking forward to the days when Sherlock would seem so much like his old self John would be convinced that nothing had ever changed; that it was all just a bad dream. Until the time came for Sherlock to feed, that is.

He was so proud of him.

And then it happened – John's worst nightmare.

He had gotten used to calling whenever Sherlock ate blood 'feeding'. It seemed more Vampire-esque, sort of a simple way to remind him that Sherlock was _indeed_ a Vampire, and no matter how much he managed to control himself there might come those days when John cuts himself on something sharp and Sherlock's instincts take over...

But John tended not to think of that.

Sherlock insisted he get as far back to normality as possible; by not calling it 'feeding'. It was just like his three meals a day, that he often skipped when he was human. But now it seemed he _needed_ to eat every day – typical breakfast, lunch and dinner. It was as if his very sanity depended on it...

But sometimes the way Sherlock acted after some meals, John was sure he was still ravenous. Some days he would be paler than others, and in other days he would look like he was blushing. It was disorientating, mostly, and John often got _too_ curious.

That one day when John had asked Sherlock if his diet of raw meat was _satisfying_ enough, Sherlock simply looked up at him, that blank expression he does, that also tells you that he thinks you're insane. But John was determined not to waver – not to give up. He needed an answer. His very life depended on it.

After a long pause, during which Sherlock remained silent and turned back to look out the window, John repeated his question – a little firmer. Sherlock decided to answer this time, not even bothering to look at John as he replied, "No." John's heart leapt in his chest – no? Raw meat wasn't satisfying enough? What more did he want; did he _need_?

Upon voicing this aloud, Sherlock's eyes snapped to his face, taking John back slightly. His eyes were now a bright shade of red, and John snapped his mouth shut quickly to swallow down the hard lump trying to force him to scream.

_He couldn't scream_. Not ever.

But Sherlock sat stone-still, eerily stiff – like death. John tried, but his hands began shaking and a cold sweat broke across his forehead. He hoped Sherlock didn't find the smell of sweat as appetising as the smell of blood...

It seemed not, as Sherlock answered, stonily, "I need human blood."

The very sentence made John's flesh crawl and a cruel shiver run down his spine, making every hair on his body stand on end. But this wasn't his worst fear – Sherlock needing human blood. Oh, no; that was just to be expected. He _was_ a Vampire, after all. No... John's worst fear was yet to come. And it was much, _much _worse.

So that very same day John had gone to the morgue. The very same day the worst happened.

He had convinced Molly it was to conduct an experiment Sherlock had yet to finish before he disappeared, and John had promised to carry it out if anything should happen to him. Molly was very sensitive about it, and handed over three pints without further question, just a few sympathetic words. Especially about how brave John was through this awful time.

John was happy Molly had taken her job back once all the murders had stopped and the Vampires all killed. But she was the only one sensitive enough not to grill John about what he was doing down there without contacting the police. She just patted him gently on the arm and got on with her job. John was thankful. She was good at her job.

After John acquired the blood from Molly, he carefully carried them back to 221B, almost giddy at how his flatmate would react. John hoped this would tide him over for a while until he could come up with another excuse to get more human blood from Molly.

But as he ran up the stairs, anxiously anticipating Sherlock's reaction, and hastily entered their flat, John's heart smashed into his ribs.

Because lying there, on the floor, pale and bone-thin, was Mrs Hudson. And hovering above her, blood dripping from his chin, was Sherlock.

John had no idea how to react at first. Sherlock's head had snapped up from... _John gulped_... Mrs Hudson's neck the moment he heard the door open. John supposed he had been so preoccupied he hadn't smelt the blood. But once he had time to register who had just entered, Sherlock jumped up and backed away from Mrs Hudson's mangled corpse as quickly as he could. Wearing his trench-coat again (John supposed it was for comfort – like a child has a blanket or a favourite toy; Sherlock had this trench-coat), he hid away his face into the fabric, only showing his ice-blue eyes above the blood-stained collar.

Mrs Hudson's eyes were still wide open.

John, being a man of a medical profession, didn't care about the maniac killing machine backing away into the corner; he just wanted to get Mrs Hudson's eyes shut – so she could be at peace. He knew he couldn't help her now.

Never tearing his eyes from the grey, unseeing eyes of his landlady, he slowly knelt down and gently closed her eyelids. She looked so much more peaceful now. Like she was sleeping...

John's eyes swept down onto the two circular wounds on her neck, no longer seeping with the blood Sherlock had just fed on, but further down until he found a more prominent mark on her wrist. He gasped in shock-horror for a moment, before his heart broke dramatically and shattered into a million pieces in his chest.

She had cut her wrist. Only slightly – on something like a kitchen knife. But it was clear that it would have been gushing with blood. What else would a frightened, elderly woman do when her wrist is bleeding? Find help. And the nearest help was Sherlock. John sighed.

Standing up again, John didn't look at Sherlock, or even Mrs Hudson. He just looked straight ahead, out the window and onto the street, examining the grubby buildings and filthy cars streaming past to calm himself down before addressing the only Consulting Detective in the world.

Turning to him, he saw him shaking, still cowering away and hiding his face. He knew he didn't want John to see the blood. John was just thankful his eyes weren't red – or he may have thrown up.

After a dramatic pause and a hasty decision, John slowly turned in Sherlock's direction and closed the space between them, one slow step at a time – one foot; then the other. Baby steps.

They'd have to take baby steps if they wanted this to work.

But Sherlock continued to cower away, until only his head of curls could be seen outside his trench-coat. John didn't mind, and knelt down infront of him. As he heard a small gasp emerge from Sherlock's mouth, he slowly enclosed his arms around his distraught friend.

And Sherlock burst into tears.

Not just tears – those racked, shattering sobs that shake his whole core and you have to hold onto him tight to make sure he feels safe. John knew his safety was fine; Sherlock was no longer hungry. But he just wanted to comfort his friend. He could see it in every inch of his body – in the whites of his ice eyes, in the tears he was shedding, in the way his body shook with every cry – that he was anguished. He was tormented and tortured; and _so _guilty. He was _so guilty_ about what he had done. Even though his thirst was quenched, he would give anything to reinstate life into his sweet old landlady.

But John didn't need to tell Sherlock that. Sherlock already knew.

_He was a murderer_.

John remained silent throughout his friends' sobs, during which he was grabbing at John's clothes and pulling him towards him like a desperate child. It was pitiful.

But John's heart when he spoke. He spoke so quietly it was barely a whisper, in a voice so soft it sounded like his tongue was made of velvet. In a voice so small he was sure Sherlock hadn't been more than two inches tall.

In a voice so full of apologies and sorrow, it took John every ounce of his body not to start crying himself.

"I tried so hard to be good, John. I tried so hard."

And as he repeated it, over and over into John's chest, his mutters fading out into inaudible whispers, fading into tormented sobs and hysterical screams – John didn't doubt him for one moment.

* * *

_**A/N: OH MY GOD! I am SOOOOOO sorry for killing Mrs Hudson! I didn't want to. :( But it was one of those ideas I get in my head that won't go away unless I write it down... DON'T HATE ME! *ducks***_

_**Um, I still have no idea how this story is going to end (and let's face it, it's gone on for quite a while XD) but I'm sure I'll finish it soon. :)**_

_**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review!**_

_**Kelly xxx**_


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